S.IBRARY 
INIVEUSITY  Of      I 


5V" 


€fje  CamBri&ge  $oetg 


Edited  by 

BROWNING  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 

MRS.  BROWNING  HARRIET  WATERS  PRESTON 

BURNS  W.E.HENLEY 

BYRON  PAUL  E.  MORE 

CHAUCER  F.  N.  ROBINSON 

DRYDEN  GEORGE  R.  No  YES 
ENGLISH  AND  SCOTTISH   >    HELEN  CHILD  SARGENT 
POPULAR  BALLADS        )    GEORGE  L.  KITTREDGE 

HOLMES  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 

KEATS  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 

LONGFELLOW  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 

LOWELL  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 

M I LTO  N  HARRIS  FRANCIS  FLETCHER 

POPE  HENRY  W.  BOYNTON 

SCOTT  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 

SHAKESPEARE  W.  A.  NEILSON 

SHELLEY  GEORGE  E.  WOODBERRY 

SPENSER  R.  E.  NEIL  DODGE 

TENNYSON  WILLIAM  J.  ROLFE 

WHITTI ER  HORACE  E.  SCUDDER 

WORDSWORTH  A.  J.  GEORGE 


WHITTIER 


Whittier's   Birthplace 


HOUGHTON    MIFFLIN    COMPANY    BOSTON 


wcMnvw 


Cambridge 


Copyright,  IS48,  1850,  1853,  1856,  1857,  1860,  1863,  1866,  1867,  1868,  1870,  1872r 
1874,  1875,  1876,  1878,  1881,  1883,  1884,  1886,  1888,  1890,  and  1891, 

BY  JOHN   GREENLEAF  WHITTIER,   TICKNOR  &  FIELDS, 
JAMES  R.  OSGOOD  &  CO.,  AND  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

Copyright,  1892, 
BY  GEORGE  F.  BAGLEY  AND  GEORGE  W.  CATE, 

EXECUTOKS    AND    TRUSTEES. 

Copyright,  1894, 
BY  HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  &  CO. 

All  rights  reserved. 


M/llN 


PUBLISHERS'   NOTE 

IN  1888,  Mr.  Whittier  supervised  the  preparation  of  a  collective  edition  of  his 
writings  which  was  published  in  seven  volumes,  under  the  title  of  the  Riverside 
Edition,  uniform  in  general  plan  with  the  Riverside  Edition  of  Longfellow's  writ 
ings.  For  this  edition  the  poet  furnished  introductions  and  head-notes,  and  in 
many  cases  revised  the  text.  He  decided  which  of  his  earlier  poems  to  discard 
altogether,  which  to  insert  in  an  appendix,  and  which  to  include  in  the  body  of  his 
poetry.  He  also  determined  on  a  classification  of  his  poems,  and  divided  the  four 
volumes  containing  them  into  definite  subdivisions,  nine  in  all  besides  a  small  group 
of  his  sister's  poems  which  he  wished  preserved  with  his  own.  Thus,  very  near  the 
end  of  his  life,  he  formed  what  was  a  definitive  edition  of  his  writings.  He  con 
tinued,  however,  to  send  out  poems  occasionally  in  tne  remaining  four  years,  and 
these  were  gathered  after  his  death  into  a  small  volume  entitled  "  At  Sundown." 
This  little  book  was  indeed  the  extension  of  one  which  he  had  issued  privately  in 
the  last  year  of  his  life. 

The  present  Cambridge  Edition  is  based  upon  the  original  Riverside  Edition. 
It  contains  the  same  text  in  the  same  topical  arrangement,  together  with  "  At 
Sundown  "  and  a  few  poems  which  were  gleaned  after  Mr.  Whittier's  death  and 
included  in  the  authorized  biography.  The  head-notes  and  the  notes  at  the  end  of 
the  volume  are  for  the  most  part  copies  or  abridgments  of  those  used  in  the  River 
side  Edition,  but  a  few  have  been  added  containing  facts  brought  to  light  after  Mr. 
Whittier's  death.  These  are  distinguished  by  being  inclosed  in  brackets  [  ].  As 
in  the  Cambridge  Edition  of  Longfellow's  Complete  Works,  a  biographical  sketch 
has  been  provided.  The  introduction  which  follows  the  sketch  is  that  prepared  by 
Mr.  Whittier  for  the  Riverside  Edition. 

BOSTON,  4  PARK  STREET,  September  1,  1894. 


;      312 


TABLE   OF   CONTENTS 


BIOGRAPHICAL  SKETCH 
INTRODUCTION  . 
PROEM 


NAERATIVE      AND      LEGENDARY 
POEMS. 

THE  VAUDOIS  TEACHER 

THE  FEMALE  MAKTYK     .  . 

EXTRACT  FROM  "A  NEW  ENGLAND 

LEGEND'' 

THE  DEMON  OF  THE  STUDY    .      v 

THE  FOUNTAIN 

PENTUCKET        

THE  NORSEMEN 

FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS  .     ' 

ST.  JOHN 

THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF  CEYLON    . 
THE  EXILES  .        .        .        .        . 
THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN     . 
CASSANDRA  SOUTHWICK 
THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD 
THE  BRIDAL  OF  PENNACOOK     . 
I.  THE  MERRIMAC  . 
II.  THE  BASHABA 

III.  THE  DAUGHTER. 

IV.  THE  WEDDING 
V.  THE  NEW  HOME 

VI.  AT  PENNACOOK      . 
VII.  THE  DEPARTURE 
VIII.  SONG  OF  INDIAN  WOMEN 
BARCLAY  OF  URY    .... 
THE  ANGELS  OF  BUENA  VISTA         , 
THE  LEGEND  OF  ST.  MARK    . 

KATHLEEN     

THE  WELL  OF  LOCH  MAREE 
THE  CHAPEL  OF  THE  HERMITS 

TAULER      

THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID 
MAUD  MULLER  ..... 

MARY  GARVIN 

THE  RANGER    

THE  GARRISON  OF  CAPE  ANN    . 
THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS        .        . 
SKIPPER  IRESON'S  RIDE      .        .        , 
THE  SYCAMORES       .        .        .       . 
THE  PIPES  AT  LUCKNOW    „ 
TELLING  THE  BEES  .... 


xi 
xxi 

1 


3 
4 

5 
6 

7 
8 
9 

11 
12 

14 
14 
17 
18 

21 
28 
28 

2<> 

27 
28 
29 

:;i 
32 
38 
33 

35 
36 
37 

.",9 
39 
44 
45 
47 
49 
51 
52 
54 
55 
5(5 
58 
59 


PAGE 

THE  SWAN  SONG  OF  PARSON  AVERT  60 
THE    DOUBLE-HEADED    SNAKE    OF 

NEWBURY 61 

MABEL  MARTIN  :  A  HARVEST  IDYL  62 
PROEM    .        .        .        .        .       .62 

I.  THE  RIVER  VALLEY           .  63 

II.  THE  HUSKING          ...  63 

III.  THE  WITCH'S  DAUGHTER.  64 

IV.  THE  CHAMPION        ...  65 
V.  IN  THE  SHADOW  ...  65 

VI.  THE  BETROTHAL     ...  66 

THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL  SEWALL  07 

THE  RED  RIVER  VOYAGEUR    .        .  69 

THE  PREACHER       ....  69 

THE  TRUCE  OF  PISCATAQUA     „        .  74 

MY  PLAYMATE        ....  76 

COBBLER  KEEZAR'S  VISION      .        .  77 

AMY  WENTWORTH.        ...  79 

THE  COUNTESS 81 

AMONG  THE  HILLS         ...  83 

PRELUDE 84 

AMONG  THE  HILLS  ...  85 

THE  DOLE  OF  JARL  THORKELL       .  89 

THE  Two  RABBINS        ...  91 

NOREMBEGA 92 

MIRIAM 93 

NAUHAUGHT,  THE  DEACON        .       .  99 

THE  SISTERS    .  100 

MARGUERITE 101 

THE  ROBIN 102 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM  .        .  103 

PRELUDE 103 

THE  PENNSYLVANIA  PILGRIM    .  103 

KING  VOLMER  AND  ELSIE  „ .       .  112 
THE  THREE  BELLS     .        .        .        .114 

JOHN  UNDERBILL    ....  115 

CONDUCTOR  BRADLEY        .        .        .  117 

THE  WITCH  OF  WENHAM      .        .  117 

KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  ANTS       .  120 

IN  THE  "OLD  SOUTH"  .        .        .  121 

THE  HENCHMAN 121 

THE    DEAD    FEAST    OF    THE  KOL- 

FOLK  .        .        .        f '     .        .        .122 

THE  KHAN'S  DEVIL       ...  123 
THE  KING'S  MISSIVE  .        .        .        .124 

VALUATION 126 

RABBI  ISHMAEL 126 

THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE    .  127 


CONTENTS 


THE  BAY  OF  SEVEN  ISLANDS  .  .  127 
THE  WISHING  BRIDGE  .  .  .  130 
How  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER  130 
ST.  GREGORY'S  GUEST  .  .  .  132 
BIRCHBROOK  MILL  ,  133 


THE  Two  ELIZABETHS  .        .      prpi 

REQUITAL 

THE  HOMESTEAD    .... 
How  THE  ROBIN  CAME     . 
BANISHED  FROM  MASSACHUSETTS 
THE  BROWN  DWARF  OF  RUGEN 

POEMS  OF  NATURE. 

THE  FROST  SPIRIT      .        .       .-. 

THE  MERRIMAC       .... 

HAMPTON  BEACH        .... 

A  DREAM  OF  SUMMER  .        .        . 

THE  LAKESIDE    .        , 

AUTUMN  THOUGHTS 

ON  RECEIVING  AN  EAGLE'S  QUILL 

FROM  LAKE  SUPERIOR    . 

APRIL 

PICTURES 

SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE  . 
THE  FRUIT-GIFT          .... 
FLOWERS  IN  WINTER    .    *•   .        . 
THE  MAYFLOWERS     .... 
THE  LAST  WALK  IN  AUTUMN      . 
THE  FIRST  FLOWERS 
THE  OLD  BURYING-GROUND 
THE  PALM-TREE         .        ... 
THE  RIVER  PATH  .       • 

MOUNTAIN  PICTURES  .... 
I.  FRANCONIA  FROM    THE  PEMI- 
GEWASSET        .... 

II.  MONADNOCK  FROM  WACHUSET 
•     THE  VANISHERS      .... 

THE  PAGEANT     

THE  PRESSED  GENTIAN        .       . 
A  MYSTERY         ...... 

A  SEA  DREAM         .... 

HAZEL  BLOSSOMS        .... 

SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP  .        . 
THE  SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL 
THE  TRAILING  ARBUTUS  .        .        . 
ST.  MARTIN'S  SUMMER  .        .       . 
STORM  ON  LAKE  ASQUAM 
A  SUMMER  PILGRIMAGE        ,        . 
SWEET  FERN       .... 

THE  WOOD  GIANT.       .       . 
A  DAY. 


PERSONAL  POEMS. 

A  LAMENT  .        .        .        .        . 

To  THE  MEMORY  OF  CHARLES 

STORKS  ,       • 


1]. 


134 
135 
135 
136 
137 
138 


141 
141 
142 
143 
144 
144 

144 
145 
146 
147 
148 
148 
149 
150 
153 
153 
155 
155 
156 

156 
156 
157 
158 
159 
159 
160 
161 
161 
162 
164 
164 
165 
165 
166 
167 
168 


169 


170 


LINES  ON  THE  DEATH  OF  S.  OLIVER 

TORREY 17G 

To ,  WITH  A  COPY  OF  WTOOL- 

MAN'S  JOURNAL  ....  171 

LEGGETT'S  MONUMENT  .  .  t  173 
To  A  FRIEND,  ON  HER  RETURN 

FROM  EUROPE  ....  173 

LUCY  HOOPER  .....  174 

FOLLEN 175 

To  J.  P.       .        .        ...        .177 

CHALKLEY  HALL    ....  177 

GONE  .  .  .  .  .  .  .178 

To  RONGE 179 

CHANNING 180 

To  MY  FRIEND  ON  THE  DEATH  OP 

HIS  SISTER  .  .  .  .  181 

DANIEL  WHEELER  ....  182 

To  FREDRIKA  BREMER  .  .  183 

To  Avis  KEENE 184 

THE  HILL-TOP  ....  184 

ELLIOTT  ••?•>  ,.  .  .  185 

ICHABOD  .  .  .  .  .  ,  .  186 
THE  LOST  OCCASION  .  .  .  .187 

WORDSWORTH  ....  188 

•To :  LINES  WRITTEN  AFTER  A 

SUMMER  DAY'S  EXCURSION  .  .  188 

IN  PEACE  .  .  .  .  .  188 

BENEDICITE 189 

KOSSUTH 189 

To  MY  OLD  SCHOOLMASTER  .  .  190 

THE  CROSS 192 

THE  HERO  .  .  .  .  .  .  192 

RANTOUL 193 

WILLIAM  FORSTER  ....  195 

To  CHARLES  SUMNER  .  .  ,  196 
BURNS  .  .  .  ,  .  .  .196 

To  GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER  .  .  198 
To  JAMES  T.  FIELDS  .  .  .198 

THE  MEMORY  OF  BURNS  .  .  199 
IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH 

STURGE 199 

BROWN  OF  OSSAWATOMIE     .       .  201 

NAPLES         .        .       ...       .       .        .  201 

A  MEMORIAL  .  .  .  ,  .  .  202 

BRYANT  ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY  .  203 

THOMAS  STARR  KING  .  .  .  203 
LINES  ON  A  FLY-LEAF  .  .  .203 

GEORGE  L.  STEARNS  .  .  ,  204 

GARIBALDI 205 


To  LYDIA  MARIA  CHILD 
THE  SINGER        .       .       .. 
How  MARY  GREW  . 
SUMNER        .... 
THIERS     .        .        .       •       . 
FITZ-GREENE  HALLECK 
WII/JAM  FRANCIS  BART  LETT 


205 
206 
207 
208 
210 
211 
211 


CONTENTS 


vil 


BAYARD  TAYLOR        .        .        .        .212 

OUR  AUTOCRAT       .        .      '»       ;.  213 
WITHIN  THE  GATE     .        .        .        .213 

IN  MEMORY:  JAMES  T.  FIELDS  .  214 

WILSON         .        .        .        ,'-".".  215 

THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDREN   .  215 

A  WELCOME  TO  LOWELL  .        .        .  216 

AN  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL  .  216 

MULFORD     .        .        .        rfs      •.'       .  217 

To  A  CAPE  ANN  SCHOONER  .       .  217 
SAMUEL  J.  TILDEN     j       . ;      .        .217 

OCCASIONAL  POEMS. 

EVA 218 

A  LAY  OF  OLD  TIME         .        .        .218 

A  SONG  OF  HARVEST     .       .       .  219 

KENOZA  LAKE 219 

FOR  AN  AUTUMN  FESTIVAL  .        .  220 
THE  QUAKER  ALUMNI       .        .        .220 

OUR  RIVER 224 

REVISITED 225 

"THE  LAURELS"    .        .        .        .  226 
JUNE  ON  THE  MERRIMAC  .        .        .  226 
HYMN  FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  THOMAS 
STARR   KING'S   HOUSE   OF  WOR 
SHIP       227 

HYMN  FOR  THE  HOUSE  OF  WORSHIP 
AT  GEORGETOWN,  ERECTED  IN 

MEMORY  OF  A  MOTHER         .        .  228 

A  SPIRITUAL  MANIFESTATION      .  228 

CHICAGO 230 

KINSMAN 231 

THE  GOLDEN  WEDDING  OF  LONG- 
WOOD  231 

HYMN  FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  PLY 
MOUTH  CHURCH,  ST.  PAUL,  MIN 
NESOTA  232 

LEXINGTON 232 

THE  LIBRARY 233 

"  I  WAS  A  STRANGER,  AND  YE  TOOK 

ME  IN" 233 

CENTENNIAL  HYMN        .        .        .  234 

AT  SCHOOL-CLOSE       ....  234 

HYMN  OF  THE  CHILDREN      .        .  235 
THE  LANDMARKS        .        .        .        .236 

GARDEN    .        .        .        .        .       .  237 

A  GREETING 237 

GODSPEED 238 

WINTER  ROSES 238 

THE  REUNION         ....  239 

NORUMBEGA   HALL       ....  239 

THE  BARTHOLDI  STATUE      .        .  240 
ONE  OF  THE  SIGNERS         .        .        .240 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH. 

PRELUDE 242 

THE  TENT  ON  THE  BEACH  .  242 


THE  WRECK  OF  RIVERMOUTH      .  245 

THE  GRAVE  BY  THE  LAKE       .        .  247 

THE  BROTHER  OF  MERCY     .        .  250 

THE  CHANGELING       ....  251 

THE  MAIDS  OF  ATTITASH      .        .  253 

KALLUNDBORG  CHURCH     .        .        .  255 

THE  CABLE  HYMN  ....  256 

THE  DEAD  SHIP  OF  HARPSWELL     .  257 

THE  PALATINE        ....  258 

ABRAHAM  DAVENPORT      .        .        .  259 

THE  WORSHIP  OF  NATURE  .       .  261 

ANTI-SLAVERY  POEMS. 

To  WILLIAM  LLOYD  GARRISON        .  262 

TOUSSAINT  L'OUVERTURE        .          .  262 

THE  SLAVE-SHIPS       ...        .265 

EXPOSTULATION       ....  267 
HYMN  :  "  O  THOU,  WHOSE  PRESENCE 

WENT  BEFORE"       ....  268 

THE  YANKEE  GIRL        ...  269 
THE  HUNTERS  OF  MEN     .        .        .270 

STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES       .        .  271 

CLERICAL  OPPRESSORS        .        .        .  272 

A  SUMMONS 272 

To  THE  MEMORY  OF  THOMAS  SHIP 
LEY    274 

THE  MORAL  WARFARE  ...  275 

RITNER 275 

THE  PASTORAL  LETTER         .        .  276 
HYMN:    "O   HOLY  FATHER!   JUST 

AND  TRUE  " 278 

THE     FAREWELL    OF   A    VIRGINIA 

SLAVE  MOTHER    ....  278 

PENNSYLVANIA  HALL         .        .        .  279 

THE  NEW  YEAR     ....  281 

THE  RELIC 283 

THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION  .        .  284 

MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA  .        .  286 

THE  CHRISTIAN  SLAVE  .        .        .  288 

THE  SENTENCE  OF  JOHN  L.  BROWN  289 

TEXAS  :  VOICE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND   .  291 

To  FANEUIL  HALL  ...  292 
To  MASSACHUSETTS    .                        .292 

NEW  HAMPSHIRE    ....  293 

THE  PINE-TREE 293 

To  A  SOUTHERN  STATESMAN        .  294 

AT  WASHINGTON        ....  295 

THE  BRANDED  HAND    .        .        .  296 

THE  FREED  ISLANDS  ....  298 

A  LETTER 298 

LINES  FROM  A  LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG 

CLERICAL  FRIEND    ....  300 

DANIEL  NEALL        ....  300 

SONG  OF  SLAVES  IN  THE  DESERT    .  301 

To  DELAWARE         .        .        .        .  301 

YORK  TOWN 302 

RANDOLPH  OF  ROANOKE  303 


viii 


CONTENTS 


THE  LOST  STATESMAN       .        .        . 
THE  SLAVES  OF  MARTINIQUE        . 
THE    CUKSE     OF     THE    CHARTER- 
BREAKERS        ..... 


THE  CRISIS  ...... 

LINES  ON  THE  PORTRAIT  OF  A  CELE 
BRATED  PUBLISHER  .  .  . 

DEKNE  ....... 

A  SABBATH  SCENE         .        .        . 

IN  THE  EVIL  DAYS     .        .        .        . 

MOLOCH  IN  STATE  STREET  • 

OFFICIAL  PIETY  ..... 

THE  RENDITION      .      ;«f,,:T:   /•• 

ARISEN  AT  LAST         .... 

THE  HASCHISH        .        .      ...» 

THE  KANSAS  EMIGRANTS  .        .        . 

FOR  RIGHTEOUSNESS'  SAKE  .        . 

LETTER  FROM  A  MISSIONARY  OF  THE 
METHODIST  EPISCOPAL  CHURCH 
SOUTH,  IN  KANSAS,  TO  A  DISTIN 
GUISHED  POLITICIAN  .  .  . 

BURIAL  OF  BARBER        .  . 

To  PENNSYLVANIA      .        .        .        . 

LE  MARAIS  DU  CYGNE  .        .        . 

THE  PASS  OF  THE  SIERRA         .        . 

A  SONG  FOR  THE  TIME         .        . 

WHAT  OF  THE  DAY?         .        .        . 

A  SONG,  INSCRIBED  TO  THE  FRE 
MONT  CLUBS  .  .  ...  . 

THE  PANORAMA  .        .        .        .        . 

ON  A  PRAYER-BOOK       ... 

THE  SUMMONS     ..... 

To  WILLIAM  H.  SEWARD      .        . 

IN  WAR  TIME. 

To   SAMUEL    E.    SEWALL   AND 
HARRIET  W.  SEWALL      .        . 
THY  WILL  BE  DONE       .        . 
A  WORD  FOR  THE  HOUR   .        . 

"ElN     FESTE    BlJRG    1ST     UNSER 

GOTT"    ..... 
To  JOHN  C.  FREMONT        .        . 
THE  WATCHERS       ... 
To  ENGLISHMEN  .        .        .        . 
MlTHRIDATES  AT  CHIOS  .        . 
AT  PORT  ROYAL  .... 
ASTR^A  AT  THE  CAPITOL       . 
THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN  OF  1862  . 
HYMN,   SUNG  AT  CHRISTMAS  BY 

THE   SCHOLARS    OF    ST.    HE 

LENA'S  ISLAND,  S.  C.   .        . 
THE  PROCLAMATION    .        .        . 
ANNIVERSARY  POEM        .        . 
BARBARA  FRIETCHIE  .        .        . 
WHAT  THE  BIRDS  SAID  .        . 
THE  MANTLE  OF  ST.  JOHN  DE 

MATHA       .  ... 


304 
305 

306 

308 

308 

310 
311 
312 
313 
314 
315 
315 
316 
316 
317 
317 


318 
319 
320 
320 
321 
322 
322 

323 
323 
330 
332 
332 


332 

333 
333 

334 

334 
335 
336 

337 

337 

338 

339 


340 
340 
341 
342 
343 

344 


LAUS  DEO!        ....        345 

HYMN   FOR  THE  CELEBRATION 
OF   EMANCIPATION    AT    NEW- 

BURYPORT 346 

AFTER  THE  WAR. 

THE  PEACE  AUTUMN 

To    THE    THIRTY-NINTH    CON 
GRESS  

THE  HIVE  AT  GETTYSBURG   . 

HOWARD  AT  ATLANTA 

THE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP   . 

THE  JUBILEE  SINGERS 

GARRISON  . 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM. 


346 

347 

348 
348 


349 
350 


THE  QUAKER  OF  THE  OLDEN  TIME  351 

DEMOCRACY 351 

THE  GALLOWS         ....  352 

SEED-TIME  AND  HARVEST         .        .  354 

To  THE  REFORMERS  OF  ENGLAND  354 

THE  HUMAN  SACRIFICE     .        .        .  355 
SONGS  OF  LABOR. 

DEDICATION       ....  357 

THE  SHOEMAKERS       .        .       .  357 

THE  FISHERMEN      .        .        .  358 

THE  LUMBERMEN        .        .        .  359 

THE  SHIP-BUILDERS        .        .  361 
THE  DROVERS      .        .        .        .362 

THE  HUSKERS  ....  363 

THE  REFORMER 364 

THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT  BRUS 
SELS        366 

THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT         .        .  367 

THE  CHRISTIAN  TOURISTS     .        .  368 
THE  MEN  OF  OLD      .       ,       .        .369 

To  Pius  IX 370 

CALEF  IN  BOSTON       .       .        .        .  371 

OUR  STATE 371 

THE  PRISONERS  OF  NAPLES     .        .  372 

THE  PEACE  OF  EUROPE        .        .  373 

ASTR^EA 373 

THE  DISENTHRALLED     .        .        .  374 
THE    POOR  VOTER    ON    ELECTION 

DAY 374 

THE  DREAM  OF  Pio  NONO    .        .  375 

THE  VOICES 376 

THE  NEW  EXODUS.        ...  377 

THE  CONQUEST  OF  FINLAND     .        .  377 

THE  EVE  OF  ELECTION.        .        .  378 

FROM  PERUGIA 379 

ITALY 381 

FREEDOM  IN  BRAZIL  .        .        .        .381 
AFTER  ELECTION    .... 

DISARMAMENT 382 

THE  PROBLEM         .... 

OUR  COUNTRY 383 

ON  THE  BIG  HORN        ...  384 


CONTENTS 


POEMS   SUBJECTIVE  AND    REMI 
NISCENT. 


MEMORIES 

RAPHAEL 

EGO 

THE  PUMPKIN 

FORGIVENESS 

To  MY  SISTER 

MY  THANKS 

REMEMBRANCE 


386 
387 
388 
390 
390 
391 
391 
392 


MY  NAMESAKE    .....  393 

A  MEMORY      .....  395 

MY  DREAM  .        .'  .        .        .395 

THE  BAREFOOT  BOY      ...  396 

MY  PSALM    ......  397 

THE  WAITING  .....  398 

SNOW-BOUND       .....  398 

MY  TRIUMPH  .....  406 

IN  SCHOOL-DAYS         .       .        .        .407 

MY  BIRTHDAY         ....  408 

RED  RIDING-HOOD      .        .        .        .408 

RESPONSE         .....  409 

AT  EVENTIDE      .....  409 

VOYAGE  OF  THE  JETTIE       .       .  410 

MY  TRUST    ......  411 

A  NAME   ......  412 

GREETING    ......  412 

AN  AUTOGRAPH      .        .       ,       .  413 

ABRAM  MORRISON      ....  413 

A  LEGACY        .....  415 

RELIGIOUS  POEMS. 

THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM       .        .  416 

THE  CITIES  OF  THE  PLAIN  .        .  417 

THE  CALL  or  THE  CHRISTIAN  .        .  417 

THE  CRUCIFIXION   ....  418 

PALESTINE    ......  419 

HYMNS  FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  LA- 

MARTINE. 

I.  ENCORE  UN  HYMNE      .        .  420 

II.  LE  CRI  DE  L'AME     .        .        .  421 

THE  FAMILIST'S  HYMN  ...  421 

EZEKIEL       ......  423 

WHAT  THE  VOICE  SAID.        .        .   •  424 

THE  ANGEL  OF  PATIENCE         .        .  425 
THE   WIFE   OF    MANOAH    TO   HER 

HUSBAND      .....  425 

MY  SOUL  AND  I  .....  426 

WORSHIP  ......  429 

THE  HOLY  LAND        ....  430 

THE  REWARD  .....  430 

THE  WISH  OF  TO-DAY      .       .       .  431 

ALL'S  WELL    .....  431 

INVOCATION         .....  431 

QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE        ...  432 

FIRST-DAY  THOUGHTS        ...  433 

TKUST       .       .....  434 


TRINITAS 434 

THE  SISTERS 433 

"THE  ROCK"  IN  EL  GHOR  .  .  435 
THE  OVER-HEART  ....  436 
THE  SHADOW  AND  THE  LIGHT  .  437 
THE  CRY  OF  A  LOST  SOUL  .  .  438 
ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER  .  .  439 

THE  ANSWER 441 

THE  ETERNAL  GOODNESS  .  .  .442 
THE  COMMON  QUESTION  .  .  443 
OUR  MASTER  .  ,  .  •  ••....  ;v  .  443 
THE  MEETING  ....  443 
THE  CLEAR  VISION  .  .  .  .447 
DIVINE  COMPASSION  .  .;>  /  ;•„•  448 
THE  PRAYER-SEEKER  ...  448 
THE  BREWING  OF  SOMA  .  .  449 
A  WOMAN  .  .  .  «  *  .  450 
THE  PRAYER  OF  AGASSIZ  .  .  450 
IN  QUEST  .  .  »  .  .  .  451 
THE  FRIEND'S  BURIAL  ...  452 
A  CHRISTMAS  CARMEN  .  .  .  453 
VESTA  .  .  .  ...  454 

CHILD-SONGS 454 

THE  HEALER  .  .  .  .  .  454 
THE  Two  ANGELS  .  .  .  .455 

OVERRULED 455 

HYMN  OF  THE  DUNKERS  .  .  .  456 
GIVING  AND  TAKING  ...  456 
THE  VISION  OF  ECHARD  .  .  .457 
INSCRIPTIONS. 

ON  A  SUN-DIAL        ...         459 

ON  A  FOUNTAIN   ....    459 

THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER         .        459 

BY  THEIR  WORKS      ....    460 

THE  WORD 460 

THE  BOOK 460 

REQUIREMENT         ....        461 

HELP 461 

UTTERANCE 461 

ORIENTAL  MAXIMS. 

THE  INWARD  JUDGE  .        .        „    461 

LAYING  UP  TREASURE    .        .        462 

CONDUCT       .        .       _••  ..;.-;       .    462 

AN  EASTER  FLOWER  GIFT    .        .        462 

THE  MYSTIC'S  CHRISTMAS  P    462 

AT  LAST  ....      ..*-•  -.•;•  463 

WHAT    THB    TRAVELLER    SAID  AT 

SUNSET 463 

"  THE  STORY  OF  IDA  "  .  .  .464 
THE  LIGHT  THAT  is  FELT  .  .  464 
THE  Two  LOVES  .  .  .  .464 

ADJUSTMENT 464 

HYMNS  OF  THE  BRAHMO  SOMAJ  .  465 
REVELATION 465 

AT  SUNDOWN. 

To  E.  C.  S.  461 


CONTENTS 


THE  CHRISTMAS  OF  1888 ...  467 

THE  Vow  OF  WASHINGTON  .  .  467 

THE  CAPTAIN'S  WELL  ...  468 
AN  OUTDOOR  RECEPTION  .  .  .470 
R.  S.  S.,  AT  DEER  ISLAND  ON  THE 

MERRIMAC 471 

BURNING  DRIFT- WOOD  .  .  .  471 
O.  W.  HOLMES  ON  HIS  EIGHTIETH 

BIRTHDAY 473 

JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL  .  .  .473 

HAVERHILL  .  .  .  :  .  .  473 

To  G.  G. :  AN  AUTOGRAPH  .  .  474 

INSCRIPTION 475 

LYDIA  H.  SIGOURNEY  .  .  .  475 

MILTON 475 

THE  BIRTHDAY  WREATH  .  .  475 

THE  WIND  OF  MARCH  ...  476 

BETWEEN  THE  GATES  .  .  .  476 

THE  LAST  EVE  OF  SUMMER  .  .  477 

To  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES  .  477 

POEMS  BY  ELIZABETH  H.  WHIT- 
TIER. 

THE  DREAM  OF  ARGYLE  .  .  479 
LlNES,  WRITTEN  ON  THE  DEPARTURE 

OF  JOSEPH  STURGE  ....  480 

JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS     .        .        .  481 

DR.  KANE  IN  CUBA     ....  481 

LADY  FRANKLIN      „  482 

NIGHT  AND  DEATH      ....  482 

THE  MEETING  WATERS  .        .  483 

THE  WEDDING  VEIL   .        .        .        .483 

CHARITY  ......  483 

APPENDIX. 
I.  EARLY  AJTD  UNCOLLECTED  VERSES. 

The  Exile's  Departure       .        .        .484 

The  Deity 484 

The  Vale  of  the  Merrimac        .        .    485 

Benevolence 485 

Ocean 486 

The  Sicilian  Vespers  .  .  .  486 
The  Spirit  of  the  North  .  .  .487 
The  Earthquake  ....  487 
Judith  at  the  Tent  of  Holof  ernes  .  488 
Metacono  .  .  .  „  .  488 


II. 


Mount  Agiochook 

The  Drunkard  to  his  Bottle 

The  Fair  Quakeress 

Bolivar  . 

Isabella  of  Austria    . 

The  Fratricide 

Isabel          .... 

Stanzas  

Mcgg  Megone    . 
The  Past  and  Coming  Year  . 
The  Missionary . 
Evening  in  Burmah 
Massachusetts    . 


490 
490 
491 
491 
492 
493 
494 
494 
495 
506 
506 
508 
508 


POEMS  PRINTED  IN  THE   u  LlFE  OF 

WHITTIER." 

The  Home-Coming  of  the  Bride       .  509 
The  Song  of  the  Vermonters,  1779  509 
To  a  Poetical  Trio  in  the  City  of  Go 
tham        ......  510 

Album  Verses        ....  512 

What  State  Street  said    to  South 
Carolina,  and  what  South  Carolina 
said  to  State  Street .  .        .512 

A  Fre'mont  Campaign  Song  .         .  512 

The  Quakers  are  Out       ...  513 

A  Legend  of  the  Lake  .        .        .  513 

Letter  to  Lucy  Larcom     .        .        .  514 

Lines  on  leaving  Appledore  .        .  515 

Mrs.  Choate's  House- Warming  515 

An  Autograph         ....  515 

To  Lucy  Larcom       ....  515 

A  FareAvell 516 

On    a    Fly-Leaf    of    Longfellow's 

Poems 516 

Samuel  E.  Sewall  ....  516 

Lines  written  in  an  Album       .         .  516 

A  Day's  Journey    ....  516 

A  Fragment 516 


III.  NOTES  . 


517 


IV.  A  CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF  MR. 

WHITTIER' s  POEMS  .    528 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 
INDEX  OF  TITLES 


533 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH 

THE  house  is  still  standing  in  East  Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  where  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier  was  born,  December  17,  1807.  It  was  built  near  the  close  of  the  seventeenth 
century  by  an  ancestor  of  the  poet,  it  sheltered  several  generations  of  Whittiers,  in  it 
John  Greenleaf  Whittier  lived  till  his  thirtieth  year,  and  now  it  is  likely  to  enjoy  a  long 
lease  of  life  in  association  with  his  name,  for  since  his  death  it  has  been  purchased  and 
held  in  trust  as  a  shrine,  and  its  chief  room  has  been  restored  to  the  condition  in  which 
it  was  when  the  boy  was  living  in  it,  the  recollection  of  whose  experience  inspired  that 
idyl  of  New  England  life,  "  Snow-Bouud." 

It  is  to  "  Snow-Bound  "  that  one  resorts  for  the  most  natural  and  delightful  narrative  oi 
the  associations  amongst  which  Whittier  passed  his  boyhood.  His  family  held  to  the 
tenets  of  the  Friends,  and  the  discipline  of  that  society  in  connection  with  the  somewhat 
rigorous  exactions  of  country  life  in  New  England  in  the  early  part  of  the  century  deter 
mined  the  character  of  the  formal  education  which  he  received.  In  later  life  he  was 
wont  to  refer  to  the  journals  of  Friends  which  he  found  in  the  scanty  library  in  his 
father's  house  as  forming  a  large  part  of  his  reading  in  boyhood.  He  steeped  his  mind 
with  their  thoughts  and  learned  to  love  their  authors  for  their  unconscious  saintliness. 
There  were  not  more  than  thirty  volumes  on  the  shelves,  and,  with  a  passion  for  reading, 
he  read  them  over  and  over.  One  of  these  books,  however,  was  the  Bible,  and  he  possessed 
himself  of  its  contents,  not  only  becoming  familiar  with  the  text,  but  penetrated  by  the 
spirit.  When  he  began  to  write,  his  practice  pieces  were  very  largely  paraphrases  of 
scriptural  themes,  and  throughout  his  poetry  allusions  to  Biblical  characters  and  passages 
fall  as  naturally  from  his  lips  as  allusions  to  Greek  or  Roman  literature  and  history 
from  the  lips  of  Milton. 

Of  regular  schooling  he  had  what  the  neighborhood  could  give,  a  few  weeks  each  win 
ter  in  the  district  school,  and  when  he  was  nineteen,  a  little  more  than  a  year  in  an 
academy  just  started  in  Haverhill.  In  "  Snow-Bound  "  he  has  drawn  the  portrait  of  one 
of  his  teachers  at  the  district  school,  and  his  poem  "  To  My  Old  Schoolmaster  "  commem 
orates  another,  Joshua  Coffin,  with  whom  he  preserved  a  strong  friendship  in  his 
manhood,  when  they  were  engaged  in  the  same  great  cause  of  the  abolition  of  human 
slavery.  These  teachers,  who,  according  to  the  old  New  England  custom,  lived  in  turn 
with  the  families  of  their  pupils,  brought  into  the  Whittier  household  other  reading  than 
strictly  religious  books,  and  Coffin  especially  rendered  the  boy  a  great  service  in  intro 
ducing  him  to  a  knowledge  of  Burns,  whose  poems  he  read  aloud  once  as  the  family  sat 
by  the  fireside  in  the  evening.  The  boy  of  fourteen  was  entranced  ;  it  was  the  voice  of 
poetry  speaking  directly  to  the  ear  of  poetry,  and  the  new-comer  recognized  in  an  instant 
the  prophet  whose  mantle  he  was  to  wear.  Coffin  was  struck  with  the  effect  on  his 
listener,  and  left  the  book  with  him.  In  one  of  his  best  known  poems,  written  a  generation 
later,  when  receiving  a  sprig  of  heather  in  bloom,  Whittier  records  his  indebtedness  to 
Burns.  To  use  his  own  expression,  "the  older  poet  woke  the  younger."  He  had  been 
dreaming  of  Indians,  much  as  a  young  Scotsman  might  have  pleased  his  imagination  by 
picturing'  border  chieftains.  He  said  himself,  looking  back  with  amusement  to  his  poem 
of  "  Mogg  Megone,"  "  it  suggests  the  idea  of  a  big  Indian  in  his  war  paint  strutting  about 
in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  plaid."  But  except  for  one  or  two  intentional  imitations,  Burns' 
influence  over  Whittier  was  summed  up  in  that  sudden  illumination  which  showed  him, 
not  indeed  the  beauty  of  nature  and  the  worth  of  man,  —  the  knowledge  of  these  was  a 
birthright, —  but  what  poetry  could  do  in  transfiguring  both. 

The  home  life  which  the  boy  led,  aside  from  the  conscious  or  unconscious  schooling 


xii  JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

which  he  found  in  books,  was  one  of  many  hardships,  but  within  the  sanctuary  of  a 
gracious  and  dignified  home.  The  secluded  valley  in  which  he  lived  was  three  miles  from 
the  nearest  village  ;  from  the  date  of  the  erection  of  the  homestead  till  now  no  neighbor's 
roof  has  been  in  sight.  The  outdoor  life  was  that  of  a  farmer  with  cattle,  tempered 
indeed  in  the  short  summer  by  the  kindly  gifts  of  nature,  so  happily  shown  in  the  poem  of 
ihe  "  Barefoot  Boy,"  but  for  the  most  part  a  life  of  toil  and  endurance  which  left  its 
marks  indelibly  in  the  shattered  constitution  of  the  poet.  Twice  a  week  the  family  drove 
to  a  Friends'  meeting  at  Amesbury,  eight  miles  distant,  and  in  winter  without  warm 
wraps  or  protecting  robes.  The  old  barn,  built  before  that  celebrated  in  "  Snow-Bound," 
had  no  doors,  and  the  winter  snows  drifted  upon  its  floor,  for  neither  beasts  nor  men, 
in  the  custom  of  the  time,  were  expected  to  resist  cold  except  by  their  native  vigor. 
Whittier's  companions  of  his  own  age  were  a  brother  and  two  sisters,  one  of  whom, 
Elizabeth  Whittier,  was  his  nearest  associate  for  the  better  part  of  his  life,  and  the  house 
hold  held  also  that  figure  so  beautiful  and  helpful  in  many  families,  an  Aunt  Mercy,  as 
also  a  lively,  adventurous  bachelor,  Uncle  Moses.  The  father  of  the  house,  as  we  are 
told,  was  a  man  of  few  words  ;  the  mother,  whose  life  was  spared  till  that  happy  time 
when  mother  and  son  change  places  in  care-taking,  had  a  rarely  refined  nature,  in  which 
the  Quaker  graces  of  calmness  and  order  were  developed  into  a  noble  beauty  of  living. 

The  appendix  to  Whittier's  Poetical  Works  contains  a  few  out  of  a  large  number  of 
poems  Written  by  him  when  he  was  a  schoolboy.  They  display,  as  indeed  did  most  of 
his  writing  for  a  few  years  to  come,  little  more  than  a  versifying  facility  and  a  certain 
sense  of  correct  form  as  copied  from  correct,  but  rather  lifeless  models.  They  were,  for 
all  that,  witnesses  to  the  intellectual  activity  of  a  rudely  trained  boy,  and  showed  that 
his  mind  was  intent  on  high,  oftentimes  poetic  themes.  His  mother  and  his  sister  Mary 
encouraged  him,  but  his  father,  a  hard-headed,  hard-working  farmer,  of  sound  judgment 
and  independent  habits  of  thinking,  was  too  severely  aware  of  the  straitened  condition  of 
the  family  to  think  of  anything  else  for  his  son  than  a  life  of  toil  like  his  own.  Mary 
Whittier,  with  a  sister's  pride,  sent  one  of  her  brother's  poems,  unknown  to  the  author, 
to  the  "  Free  Press  "  of  Newburyport,  a  new  paper  lately  started  which  commended  itself 
by  its  tone  to  the  Quaker  Whittier,  so  that  he  had  subscribed  tc  it.  The  poem  was 
printed,  and  the  first  that  the  poet  knew  of  it  was  when  he  caught  the  paper  from  the 
postman  riding  by  the  field  where  he  and  his  father  were  working.  It  was  such  a  mo 
ment  as  conies  to  a  young  poet,  believing  in  himself  and  having  that  aspiration  for 
recognition  which  is  one  of  the  holiest  as  it  is  one  of  the  subtlest  elements  in  the  poetic 
constitution.  The  poem  was  followed  by  another,  which  the  author  himself  sent  ;  and 
when  it  was  printed,  it  was  introduced  by  an  editorial  note,  in  which  the  fame  of  the  poet 
was  foretold,  and  a  hint  given  as  to  his  youth  and  condition.  For  with  the  publication 
of  the  first  poem,  "  The  Kxile's  Departure,"  the  editor  had  become  so  interested  that  he 
had  sought  the  acquaintance  of  the  writer. 

Whittier  was  at  work  in  the  fields  when  the  editor,  himself  a  young  man,  called.  He 
held  back,  but  was  induced  by  his  sister  to  make  himself  presentable  and  come  in  to  see 
the  visitor.  It  was  one  of  those  first  encounters  which  in  the  history  of  notable  men  are 
charged  with  most  interesting  potentialities.  Garrison,  for  he  was  the  editor,  had  not  yet 
done  more  than  take  the  first  step  on  his  thorny  path  to  greatness,  and  Whittier  was  still 
working  in  the  fields,  though  harboring  poetic  visitants.  Garrison  was  but  a  few  years 
older,  and  in  later  life  those  few  years  counted  nothing,  but  now  they  were  enough  to 
lead  him  to  take  the  tone  of  an  adviser,  and  both  toGreenleaf  and  his  father,  who  entered 
the  room,  he  spoke  of  the  promise  of  the  youth  and  the  importance  of  his  acquiring  an 
academic  education. 

It  was  against  the  more  rigorous  interpretation  of  the  Friends'  doctrine  that  literary 
culture  should  be  made  an  end,  and  the  notion  that  the  boy  should  be  sent  to  an  academy 
was  not  encouraged;  but  a  few  months  later.  Garrison  having  left  Newburyport  for  Bos 
ton,  and  Whittier  making  a  new  connection  with  the  Haverhill  "  Gazette,"  the  editor  of  that 
paper,  Mr.  A.  W.  Thayer,  gave  the  same  advice  and  pressed  the  consideration  that  a  new 
academy  was  shortly  to  be  opened  in  Haverhill.  He  offered  the  boy  a  home  in  his  own 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xiii 

family,  and  the  father  now  consented,  moved  also  by  the  doubt  if  his  son  could  stand  the 
physical  strain  of  farm  work.  He  had  no  money,  however,  to  spare,  and  the  student 
must  earn  his  own  living.  This  he  did  by  making  a  cheap  kind  of  slipper,  and  devoted 
himself  so  faithfully  to  the  industry  in  the  few  months  intervening  between  the  decision 
and  the  opening  of  the  academy  in  May,  1827,  that  he  earned  enough  to  pay  his  expenses 
there  for  a  term  of  six  months.  "  He  calculated  so  closely  every  item  of  expense,"  says 
his  biographer,  "that  he  knew  before  the  beginning  of  the  term  that  he  would  have 
twenty-five  cents  to  spare  at  its  close,  and  he  actually  had  this  sum  of  money  in  his  pocket 
when  his  half  year  of  study  was  over.  It  was  the  rule  of  his  whole  life  never  to  buy 
anything  until  he  had  the  money  in  hand  to  pay  for  it,  and  although  his  income  was  small 
and  uncertain  until  past  middle  life,  he  was  never  in  debt." 

By  teaching  a  district  school  a  few  weeks  and  aiding  a  merchant  with  bookkeeping,  he 
was  enabled  to  make  out  a  full  year  of  study,  and  meantime  continued  to  write  both  verse 
and  prose  for  the  newspapers.  By  this  means  he  paved  the  way  for  an  invitation  when 
he  was  twenty-one  years  of  age  to  enter  the  printing  office  in  Boston  of  the  Colliers, 
father  and  son,  who  published  two  weekly  papers  and  a  magazine.  One  of  the  weeklies 
was  a  political  journal,  "The  Manufacturer,"  the  other  a  paper  of  reform  and  humani- 
tarianism  called  "  The  Philanthropist."  Whittier  had  editorial  charge  of  the  former,  and 
occupied  himself  with  writing  papers  on  temperance  and  the  tariff  of  which  he  was  an 
ardent  advocate,  and  with  verses  and  tales.  It  was  not  altogether  a  congenial  relation  in 
which  he  found  himself,  though  the  occupation  was  one  to  which  he  was  to  turn  naturally 
for  some  time  to  come  for  self-support  ;  he  remained  with  the  Colliers  for  a  year  and  a 
half,  and  then  returned  to  his  father's  farm,  with  between  four  and  five  hundred  dollars, 
the  savings  of  half  his  salary.  This  he  devoted  to  freeing  the  farm  from  the  inctimbrance 
of  a  mortgage,  and  himself  took  charge  of  the  farm,  for  his  father  was  rapidly  failing  in 
health. 

The  death  of  his  father  in  June,  1830,  while  it  set  him  free  from  his  father's  occupa 
tion,  made  it  still  more  imperative  for  him  to  earn  his  living,  since  the  care  of  the  family 
fell  upon  him.  He  had  been  using  his  pen  and  studying  meanwhile,  and  his  verses  were 
bringing  him  acquaintances  and  friends.  Through  one  of  these,  the  brilliant  George  D. 
Prentice,  he  was  induced  to  take  up  editorial  work  again  in  Hartford;  but  after  a  deter 
mined  effort  it  became  clear  that  his  health  was  too  fragile  to  permit  him  to  devote 
himself  to  the  exacting  work  of  editing  a  journal,  and  in  January,  1832,  he  returned  to 
his  home.  Just  at  this  time  he  published  his  first  book,  a  mere  pamphlet  of  twenty-eight 
octavo  pages  containing  a  poem  of  New  England  legendary  life,  entitled  "  Moll  Pitcher." 
He  had  contributed  besides,  more  than  a  hundred  poems  in  the  three  years  since  leaving 
the  academy,  and  had  written  many  more.  But  though  thus  active  with  his  pen,  his 
strongest  ambition,  it  may  be  said,  was  at  this  time  in  the  direction  of  politics.  For  the 
next  four  years  he  remained  on  the  farm  at  Haverhill,  and  when  in  April.  1836,  the  farm 
was  sold,  he  removed  with  his  mother  and  sister  to  the  village  of  Amesbury,  chiefly  that  they 
might  be  nearer  the  Friends'  meeting,  but  also  that  Whittier  might  be  more  in  the  centre 
of  things.  In  his  seclusion  at  East  Haverhill  he  had  eagerly  watched  the  course  of  public 
events.  He  was  a  great  admirer  of  Henry  Clay,  and  a  determined  opponent  of  Jackson. 
With  his  engaging  character,  his  intellectual  readiness,  and  that  political  instinct  which 
never  deserted  him,  he  was  rapidly  coming  into  public  notice  in  his  district,  and  his  own 
desire  for  serving  in  office  drew  him  on.  To  be  a  member  of  Congress  he  must  be  twenty- 
five  years  old,  and  at  the  election  which  was  to  occur  just  before  his  birthday  there  were 
many  indications  that  he  would  be  the  nominee  of  his  party.  This  was  at  the  end  of  1832, 
but  before  the  next  election  occurred  there  was  a  grave  obstacle  created  by  Whittier 
himself,  and  thenceforward  through  the  years  when  he  would  naturally  engage  in  public 
life  he  was  practically  debarred. 

It  was  not  the  precariousness  of  his  health  which  kept  Whittier  out  of  active  politics, 
though  this  was  a  strong  reason  for  avoiding  the  stress  and  strain  of  a  public  life,  but  the 
decision  which  led  him  to  enlist  in  nu  unpopular  cause.  In  November,  1831,  he  had 
published  his  poem  "  To  William  LUv-'H  riarri^on,"  which  introduces  the  section  Anti-Slaver5 


xiv  JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

Poems  in  this  collection.  It  intimates  a  personal  influence  under  which,  with  a  moral 
nature  fortified  by  great  political  insight,  he  began  to  consider  seriously  the  movement  for 
the  abolition  of  slavery  which  was  making  itself  evident  here  and  there.  As  a  specific 
result  of  this  study  he  wrote  in  the  spring  of  1833  the  pamphlet  "  Justice  and  Expediency," 
and  published  it  at  his  own  expense.  It  was  a  piece  of  writing  compact  with  carefully 
gathered  facts  and  logical  deduction,  and  earnest  with  the  rhetoric  of  personal  conviction. 
Every  sentence  was  an  arraignment  of  slavery  and  a  blow  at  his  own  chances  of  political 
office.  The  performance  was  in  answer  to  the  appeal  of  his  own  truthful  nature,  and  it 
was  a  deliberate  act  of  renunciation. 

Now  also  began,  at  first  with  remote  suggestions  as  in  "  Toussaint  L'Ouverture,"  then 
\iearer  and  nearer  as  he  sings  his  tribute  to  the  men  of  his  day,  known  or  unknown,  who 
had  been  champions  of  freedom,  Storrs,  Shipley,  Torrey,  those  bursts  of  passionate  verse 
which  were  the  vent  of  his  soul  overburdened  with  a  sense  of  the  deep  wrong  committed 
Against  God  and  man  by  the  persistency  of  African  slavery  in  the  United  States.  In  the 
years  immediately  following  his  decision  to  cast  in  his  lot  with  the  small  band  of  despised 
anti-slavery  agitators  almost  all  of  the  poems  which  he  wrote  were  of  two  sorts,  either 
breathings  of  a  spirit  craving  close  communion  with  God  as  in  his  hymns,  his  lines  on 
"  The  Call  of  the  Christian,"  "  The  Female  Martyr,"  and  other  poems,  or  fiery,  scarce-con 
trolled  outbursts  of  feeling  upon  the  evils  of  slavery,  and  vials  of  wrath  poured  out  on 
those  who  aided  and  abetted  the  monstrous  wrong.  Such  poems  as  "The  Slave  Ships," 
"  The  Hunters  of  Men,"  "  Stanzas  for  the  Times,"  "  Clerical  Oppressors,"  "  Massachusetts," 
"The  Pastoral  Letter,"  derive  their  power  not  from  their  poetic  spirit  and  form  so  much 
as  from  the  righteous  indignation,  the  pity,  the  overcharged  feeling  which  crowd  them. 
And  if,  in  the  years  before,  Whittier's  verses  with  their  conventional  smoothness  had 
drawn  notice  by  the  gentle  spirit  which  suffused  them,  now  his  loud  cry,  violent  and 
tempestuous,  broke  upon  the  ear  with  a  harshness  and  yet  an  insistent  fervor  which  com 
pelled  men  to  listen.  It  is  indeed  a  striking  phenomenon  in  poetic  growth  which  one 
perceives  who  is  familiar  with  Whittier's  compositions  and  casts  his  eye  down  a  chronolog 
ical  list  of  his  poems.  Up  to  the  date  of  his  enlistment  in  the  ranks  of  the  anti-slavery 
army  his  ambition  had  been  divided  between  literature  and  politics,  with  a  taste  in  verse 
which  was  harmonious  and  an  execution  which  was  not  wanting  in  melody  yet  had  no 
remarkable  note.  After  he  stepped  into  the  ranks  a  great  change  came  over  his  spirit. 
He  rushed  into  verse  in  a  tumultuous  fashion,  careless  of  the  form,  eager  only  to  utter 
the  message  which  half  choked  him  with  its  violence.  There  was  a  fierce  note  to  his 
poetry,  rough,  but  tremendously  earnest.  This  was  the  first  effect,  such  a  troubling  of 
the  waters  as  gave  a  somewhat  turbid  aspect  to  the  stream,  and  for  a  while  his  verse  was 
very  largely  declamatory,  rhymed  polemics. 

But  such  poems  as  "  Expostulation,"  beginning 

"  Our  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  !  " 

were  to  people  then  living  scarcely  so  much  poems  as  they  were  sounds  of  a  great  trumpet 
which  were  heard,  not  for  their  musical  sonance,  but  for  their  power  to  stir  the  blood,  and 
Whittier,  though  living  almost  in  seclusion,  became  a  name  of  note  to  many  who  would 
scarcely  have  known  of  him  had  he  been  a  mere  legislator  or  smooth-singing  verse  maker. 
He  was  recognized  by  the  anti-slavery  leaders  as  one  of  themselves,  and  this  not  only 
because  of  his  powerful  speech  in  song,  but  because  on  closer  acquaintance  he  proved  to 
be  a  most  sagacious  and  wise  reader  of  men  and  affairs.  His  own  neighbors  quickly 
teamed  this  quality  in  him.  He  was  sent  to  the  legislature  in  1835  and  reelected  in 
1836,  but  his  frail  health  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  continue  in  this  service.  Never 
theless,  he  wielded  political  power  with  great  skill  aside  from  political  office.  He  was 
indefatigable  in  accomplishing  political  ends  through  political  men.  No  important 
nominations  were  made  in  his  district  without  a  preliminary  conference  with  him,  and 
more  than  once  he  compelled  unwilling  representatives  to  work  for  the  great  ends  he  had 
in  view.  It  may  be  said  here  that  though  a  steadfast  leader  in  the  anti-slavery  cause  he 
differed  from  some  of  his  associates,  both  now  and  throughout  his  life,  in  setting  a  high 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xv 

value  upon  existing  political  organizations.  "  From  first  to  last,"  says  his  biographer, 
"  he  refused  to  come  out  from  his  party  until  he  had  done  all  that  could  be  done  to  induce 
it  to  assist  in  the  work  of  reform,"  and  Whittier  himself,  in  an  article  written  about  this 
time,  exclaims,  "  What  an  absurdity  is  moral  action  apart  from  political  i  "  meaning  of 
course  when  dealing  with  those  subjects  which  demand  political  action.  Once  more,  in  a 
letter  written  to  the  anti-Texas  convention  of  1845,  he  said  that  though  as  an  abolitionist 
he  was  no  blind  worshiper  of  the  Union,  he  saw  nothing  to  be  gained  by  an  effort,  neces 
sarily  limited  and  futile,  to  dissolve  it.  The  moral  and  political  power  requisite  for 
dissolving  the  Union  could  far  more  easily  abolish  every  vestige  of  slavery. 

We  have  anticipated  a  little  in  these  comments  the  strict  order  of  Whittier's  life.  In 
1836  was  published  the  first  bound  volume  of  his  verse.  It  was  confined  to  his  poem 
"  Mogg  Megone,"  which  he  had  before  printed  in  the  "  New  England  Magazine."  It  may 
be  taken  as  the  last  expression  of  Whittier's  poetic  mind  before  the  great  change  came 
over  it  of  which  we  have  spoken,  and  he  was  himself  later  so  aware  of  its  lack  of  genuine 
life  that  in  collecting  finally  his  writings  he  buried  this  so  far  as  he  could  in  the  fine  type 
of  an  appendix  ;  but  at  the  end  of  1837  Isaac  Knapp,  publisher  of  the  "  Liberator," 
Garrison's  paper,  to  which  Whittier  had  been  contributing  his  stirring  verses,  without 
consulting  the  poet,  issued  a  volume  of  over  a  hundred  pages,  entitled  "  Poems  written 
during  the  Progress  of  the  Abolition  Question  in  the  United  States,  between  the  Years 
1830  and  1838.  By  John  G.  Whittier."  This  was  the  first  collection  of  his  miscellaneous 
poems,  and  a  year  later  another  volume  was  issued  by  Joseph  Healy,  the  financial  agent 
of  the  Anti-Slavery  Society  of  Pennsylvania.  Meanwhile  Whittier  had  been  staying 
awhile  in  Philadelphia,  engaged  in  editing  the  "  Pennsylvania  Freeman."  It  was  during 
this  time  that  Pennsylvania  Hall  was  burnt  by  a  mob  enraged  at  the  gathering  there  of  an 
anti-slavery  convention.  Besides  his  work  on  the  paper,  which  was  frequently  interrupted 
by  ill  health,  he  devoted  himself  in  other  ways  to  the  promotion  of  the  cause  in  which  he 
was  so  ardently  involved,  but  early  in  1840  he  found  it  imperative  to  give  up  all  this  work 
and  retire  to  his  home  in  Amesbury. 

From  this  time  forward  he  made  no  attempt  to  engage  in  any  occupation  which  did  not 
comport  with  a  quiet  life  in  his  own  home,  except  that  for  a  few  months  in  1844  he 
resided  in  Lowell,  editing  the  "  Middlesex  Standard."  He  wrote  much  for  the  papers, 
and  the  poetic  stream  also  flowed  with  greater  freedom  and  it  may  be  said  clearness. 
He  contributed  a  number  of  poems  to  the  "  Democratic  Review  "  and  other  periodicals^ 
and  in  1843  the  firm  of  W.  D.  Ticknor  published  "  Lays  of  my  Home,  and  Other  Poems," 
the  first  book  from  which  Whittier  received  any  remuneration.  The  struggle  for  main 
tenance  through  these  years  was  somewhat  severe,  but  in  January,  1847,  h3  formed  a 
connection  which  was  not  only  to  afford  him  a  more  liberal  support,  but  was  to  give  him  a 
most  favorable  outlet  for  his  writings,  both  prose  and  verse. 

It  had  been  decided  by  the  American  and  Foreign  Anti-Slavery  Society  to  establish  a 
weekly  paper  in  Washington,  and  the  editorial  charge  was  committed  to  Dr.  Gamaliel 
Bailey,  an  intrepid  and  able  man  of  experience.  The  paper  was  named  u  The  National 
Era,"  and  Whittier  was  invited  to  become  a  regular  contributor,  editorial  and  otherwise, 
but  not  required  to  do  his  work  away  from  home.  The  paper,  as  is  well  known,  was  the 
medium  for  the  publication  of  "  Uncle  Tom's  Cabin,"  and  its  circulation  was  so  consider 
able  as  to  make  it  a  source  of  profit  to  its  conductors  as  early  as  by  the  end  of  the  first 
year.  From  1847  till  1860  Whittier  made  this  paper  the  chief  vehicle  of  his  writings, 
contributing  not  only  poems,  but  reviews  of  contemporary  literature,  editorial  articles, 
letters,  sketches,  and  the  serial  which  was  published  afterward  in  a  book,  "  Leaves  from 
Margaret  Smith's  Journal." 

In  1849  B.  B.  Mussey  &  Co.  of  Boston  brought  out  a  comprehensive  collection  of 
Whittier's  Poems  in  a  dignified  octavo  volume  illustrated  with  designs  by  Hammatt 
Billings.  It  was  a  venture  made  quite  as  much  on  friendly  as  on  commercial  grounds. 
Mr.  Mussey  was  a  cordial  supporter  of  the  anti-slavery  cause  and  had  a  great  admiration 
for  Whittier's  genius.  He  was  determined  to  publish  the  poems  in  a  worthy  form,  and 
his  generous  act  met  with  an  agreeable  reward.  Its  success  was  a  testimony  to  the 


xvi  JOHN   GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

repute  in  which  Whittier  was  now  held.  At  the  same  time  his  publishers,  Messrs.  Ticknoi 
&  Fields,  were  in  negotiation  with  him  for  a  new  volume,  and  in  1850  appeared  "  Songs  of 
Labor,  and  Other  Poems." 

These  two  volumes  which  gathered  the  fruit  of  twenty  years  show  unmistakably  the 
further  growth  of  Whittier's  poetic  power.  With  the  establishment  of  his  anti-slavery 
convictions  into  firm  working  principles,  the  maturing  of  his  experience,  the  enlarge 
ment  of  his  political  vision,  and  the  increase  in  his  friendship,  there  had  come  also  a 
Strengthening  of  his  hand  in  the  use  of  his  pen,  and  a  finer  use,  because  more  clear  and 
restrained,  of  his  poetic  voice.  Moreover,  the  religious  feeling  which  was  seen  in  his 
earlier  life,  and  put  to  the  test  by  closer  association  with  men,  had  deepened  into  a 
serene  confidence  in  God  which  pervaded  his  life  and  sustained  him  against  all  the  shock 
of  a  disappointing  age.  Moreover,  his  eye  and  ear  were  in  harmony  with  nature,  and 
more  and  more  he  found  not  only  an  escape  to  nature  as  a  relief  from  the  world  but  a 
positive  enjoyment  in  the  field  of  beauty.  Poetry,  once  a  literary  exercise,  then  a  chan 
nel  for  the  relief  of  a  mind  overburdened  with  its  sense  of  an  unconquered  evil,  was  now 
become  the  full,  free  expression  of  a  nature  broadening  under  the  thought  of  God, 
delighting  in  response  to  the  world  of  beauty,  strong  and  secure  in  a  great  purpose  of 
humanity.  It  was  his  natural  voice,  which  formerly  broke  under  the  strain  of  a  chang 
ing  constitution,  but  now  was  pure,  sweet  and  far-carrying,  obeying  a  trained  impulse  and 
resonant  with  a  full  force. 

The  establishment  of  "  The  Atlantic  Monthly  "  in  1857  gave  another  impetus  to  Whit- 
tier's  poetic  productiveness.  Here  was  a  singular  illustration  of  the  growth  in  the  commun 
ity  about  him  of  a  spirit  quite  in  agreement  with  his  own  personality.  Opposition  to  sla 
very  lay  at  the  base  of  the  origin  of  the  magazine,  and  yet  in  the  minds  of  its  projectors, 
this  political  bond  was  to  unite  men  of  letters  and  not  simply  antagonists  of  slavery.  The 
"  Atlantic  "  was  to  be  the  organ  of  the  literary  class,  but  it  was  to  be  by  no  means  exclu 
sively  devoted  to  an  anti-slavery  crusade.  Indeed  it  woulc1  almost  seem  as  if  this  specific 
purpose  of  the  magazine  was  almost  lost  sight  of  at  first  in  the  richness  and  abundance 
of  general  literature  which  it  immediately  stimulated.  It  is  easy  now  to  see  how  natural 
and  congenial  a  medium  this  was  for  Whittier's  verse.  In  subjecting  his  political  and 
literary  ambition  to  a  great  moral  purpose,  so  that  he  could  no  longer  hope  for  political 
official  power,  and,  in  his  own  words 

"  Had  left  the  Muses'  haunts  to  turn 

The  crank  of  an  opinion  mill, 
Making  his  rustic  reed  of  song 
A  weapon  in  the  war  with  wrong. 
Yoking  his  fancy  to  the  breaking-plough 
That  beam-deep  turned  the  soil  for  truth  to  spring  and  grow,"  — 

in  doing  this,  though  it  cost  him  a  struggle,  he  had  fulfilled  the  true  saying  that  to  save 
one's  life  one  must  lose  it.  He  had  given  up  the  name  and  place  of  a  political  n.agnate, 
but  he  had  secured  the  more  impregnable  position  of  the  power  behind  the  throne  in  poli 
tics,  and  in  place  of  a  smooth  versifier,  holding  the  attention  of  those  with  whom  poetry 
was  a  plaything,  he  had  become  one  of  the  few  imperative  voices  of  song,  and  had  taken 
his  place  as  one  of  the  necessary  men  in  the  group  of  men  of  letters  who  no\v  came  to 
gether  to  represent  the  highest  force  in  American  literature. 

For  it  is  to  be  observed  that  Whittier  was  now  no  longer  regarded  as  only  the  singer 
of  spirited  songs  flying  with  all  their  winged  power  straight  at  the  enemy  as  they  sped 
from  a  bow  held  by  an  Apollo.  The  passion  which  he  had  shown  in  his  polemic  verse 
had  awakened  his  whole  nature,  and  his  poems  on  whatever  theme  came  from  a  nature 
which  had  been  developed  in  all  its  powers  by  this  commanding  purpose.  Nevertheless, 
it  is  noticeable  how  the  new  opportunity  afforded  by  the  "  Atlantic,"  and  the  increased 
association  with  the  other  great  writers  of  the  day,  was  consonant  with  if  not  the  cause  of 
a  broadening  of  Whittier's  mind,  a  sunny  burst  of  full  life,  finding  expression  in  such 
poems  as  "  Skipper  Ireson's  Ride,"  "  The  Sycamores,"  "  The  Pipes  at  Lucknow,"  "  Mabel 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xvii 

Martin,"  "  The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann,"  "  The  Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery,"  "  Telling 
the  Bees,"  "  The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn,"  as  well  as  "  The  Eve  of  Election  "  and  "  Moloch 
in  State  Street." 

The  war  for  the  Uniou  naturally  found  Whittier  strongly  stirred,  and  more  than  ever 
watchful  of  the  great  issue  which  throughout  his  manhood  has  been  constantly  before  his 
eyes,  and  his  triumphant  "  Laus  Deo  "is  as  it  were  the  Nunc  Dimittis  of  this  modern  pro 
phet  and  servant  of  the  Lord.  But  Whittier  was  a  Quaker  not  in  any  conventional 
Bense,  but  by  birthright,  conviction,  and  growing  consciousness  of  communion  with  God. 
Though  he  wrote  such  a  stirring  ballad,  therefore,  as  "  Barbara  Erietchie,"  he  wrote  also 
the  lines  addressed  to  his  fellow-believers  :  — 

"  The  levelled  gun,  the  battle  brand 

We  may  not  take  : 
But,  calmly  loyal,  we  can  stand 
And  suffer  with  our  suffering  land 
For  conscience'  sake." 

It  is  interesting  also  to  observe  how  in  this  time  of  stress  and  pain,  he  escaped  to  the 
calm  solace  of  nature.  His  poem  "  The  Battle  Autumn  of  1862,"  records  this  emotion 
specifically,  but  more  than  one  poem  in  the  group  "  In  War  Time  "  bears  testimony  to  this 
sentiment.  Meanwhile  other  poems  written  during  the  years  1861-1865  illustrate  the 
longing  of  Whittier's  nature  for  relief  from  the  terrible  knowledge  of  human  strife,  a 
longing  definitely  expressed  by  him  in  the  prelusive  address  to  William  Bradford,  the 
Quaker  painter,  prefacing  "  Amy  Wentworth,"  in  which  he  says  :  — 

"  We,  doomed  to  watch  a  strife  we  may  not  share 
With  other  weapons  than  the  patriot's  prayer, 
Yet  owning  with  full  hearts  and  moistened  eyes 
The  awful  beauty  of  self-sacrifice, 
And  wrung  by  keenest  sympathy  for  all 
Who  give  their  loved  ones  for  the  living  wall 
'Twixt  law  and  treason,  —  in  this  evil  day 
May  haply  find,  through  automatic  play 
Of  pen  and  pencil,  solace  to  our  pain, 
And  hearten  others  with  the  strength  we  gain." 

Something  of  the  same  note  is  struck  in  the  introduction  to  "  The  Countess."  But  be 
fore  the  war  closed,  Whittier  met  with  a  personal  loss  which  meant  much  to  him  every 
way.  His  sister  Elizabeth,  as  we  have  seen,  had  been  his  closest  companion,  his  most  in 
timate  acquaintance.  He  had  shared  his  life  with  her  in  no  light  sense,  and  now  he  was 
to  see  the  flame  of  that  life  flicker  and  at  last  expire  in  the  early  fall  of  1864.  The 
first  poem  after  her  death,  "  The  Vanishers,"  in  its  theme,  its  faint  note  as  of  a  bird 
calling  from  the  wood,  is  singularly  sweet  both  as  a  sign  of  the  return  of  the  poet  to 
the  world  after  his  flight  from  it  in  sympathy  and  imagination  with  the  retreating  spirit 
of  his  sister,  and  as  a  prophecy  of  the  character  of  so  large  a  part  of  Whittier's  poetry 
from  this  time  forward.  "The  Eternal  Goodness,"  written  a  twelvemonth  later,  may 
be  said  more  positively  than  any  other  poem  to  contain  Whittier's  creed,  and  the  fullness 
of  faith  which  characterizes  it  found  free  and  cheerful  expression  again  and  again. 

Yet  another  poern  which  immediately  followed  it  is  significant  not  only  by  its  repetition 
of  his  note  of  spiritual  trust,  but  by  its  strong  witness  to  the  sane,  human  quality  of 
Whittier's  genius.  "  Snow- Bound,"  simple  and  radiant  as  it  is  with  human  life,  is  also  the 
reflection  of  a  mind  equally  at  home  in  spiritual  realities.  It  may  fairly  be  said  to  sum 
up  Whittier's  personal  experience  and  faith,  and  yet  so  absolutely  free  is  it  from  egotism 
that  it  has  taken  its  place  as  the  representative  poem  of  New  England  country  life,  quite 
as  surely  as  Burns'  "  The  Cotter's  Saturday  Night  "  expresses  one  large  phase  of  Scot 
tish  life. 

The  success  which  attended  "  Snow-Bound  "  was  immediate,  and  the  result  was  such  as 
to  put  Whittier  at  once  beyond  the  caprices  of  fortune,  and  to  give  him  so  firm  a  place  in 


xviii  JOHN    GREENLEAF   WHITTIER 

the  affections  of  his  countrymen  as  to  complete  as  it  were  the  years  of  his  struggle  and 
his  patient  endurance.  There  is  something  almost  dramatic  in  the  appearance  of  this 
poem.  The  war  was  over  :  the  end  of  that  long  contest  in  which  Whittier,  physically 
weak  but  spiritually  strong,  had  been  a  pillar  of  cloud  by  day  and  a  pillar  of  *fire  by 
night.  What  was  the  force  which  had  been  too  mighty  for  a  great  entrenched  wrong  ? 
With  no  conscious  purpose,  but  in  the  simple  delight  of  poetry,  Whittier  sang  this 
winter  idyl  of  the  North,  and  one  now  sees  how  it  imprisons  the  light  which  shatters  the 
evil,  for  it  is  an  epitome  of  homely  work  and  a  family  life  lived  in  the  eye  of  God, 
*'  duty  keeping  pace  with  all,"  and  the  whole  issuing  in  that  large  hope. 

"  Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day." 

The  history  of  Whittier's  life  after  this  date  is  written  in  his  poems.  The  outward 
adventure  was  slight  enough.  He  divided  his  year  between  the  Amesbury  home  and 
that  which  he  established  with  other  kinsfolk  at  Oak  Knoll  in  Danvers.  In  "the  summer 
time  he  was  wont  to  seek  the  mountains  of  New  Hampshire  or  the  nearer  beaches  that 
stretch  from  Newburyport  to  Portsmouth.  The  scenes  thus  familiar  to  him  were  trans 
lated  by  him  into  song.  Human  life  blended  with  the  forms  of  nature,  and  he  made  this 
whole  region  as  distinctively  his  poetic  field  as  Wordsworth  made  the  Lake  district  of 
Cumberland,  or  as  Irving  made  the  banks  of  the  Hudson.  In  such  a  group  as  "  The 
Tent  on  the  Beach,"  in  "  Among  the  Hills,"  "  The  Witch  of  Wenham,"  "  Sunset  on  the 
Bearcamp,"  "  The  Seeking  of  the  Waterfall,"  "  How  the  Women  went  from  Dover," 
"  The  Homestead,"  and  many  others  he  records  the  delight  which  he  took  in  nature  and 
especially  in  the  human  associations  with  nature. 

"  The  Tent  on  the  Beach  "  again  illustrates  the  personal  attachments  which  he  formed 
and  which  constituted  so  large  an  element  in  the  last  thirty  years  of  his  life.  In  actual 
contact  and  in  the  friendships  formed  through  books,  one  may  read  the  largeness  of 
Whittier's  sympathy  with  his  fellows,  and  the  warmth  of  his  generous  nature.  Such 
poems  as  the  frequent  ones  commemorating  Garrison,  Simmer,  Longfellow,  Lowell,  Holmes, 
the  Fields's,  Mrs.  Child,  the  Spoffords,  Stedman,  Barnard,  Bayard  Taylor,  Weld  and 
others  illustrate  the  range  of  his  friendship  ;  but  the  poems  also  which  bear  the  names  of 
Tilden,  Mulford,  Thiers,  Halleck,  Agassiz,  Garibaldi  illustrate  likewise  a  strong  sense  of 
the  lives  of  men  who,  perhaps,  never  came  within  the  scope  of  personal  acquaintance. 

Nor  was  it  only  through  human  lives  that  he  touched  the  world  about  him.  His  bio 
grapher  bears  witness  to  the  assiduity  with  which  he  compensated  in  later  years  for  the 
restrictions  imposed  by  necessity  on  his  education  in  earlier  years.  He  became  a  great 
and  discursive  reader,  and  his  poems,  especially  after  "  Snow-Bound,"  contain  many 
proofs  of  this  both  in  the  suggestions  which  gave  rise  to  them  and  in  the  allusions  which 
they  contain.  Northern  literature  is  reflected  in  "  The  Dole  of  Jarl  Thorkell,"  "  King 
Volmer  and  Elsie,"  "The  Brown  Dwarf  of  Riigen,"  and  others;  Eastern  life  and 
religion  reappear  in  "Oriental  Maxims,"  "Hymns  of  the  Brahmo  Somaj,"  "The  Brew 
ing  of  Sorna,"  "  Giving  and  Taking,"  and  many  more,  and  history,  especially  that  in 
volved  with  his  own  religious  faith,  gave  opportunity  for  "  The  King's  Missive,"  "  St. 
Gregory's  Guest,"  "  Banished  from  Massachusetts,"  ""The  Two  Elizabeths,"  "  The  Penn 
sylvania  Pilgrim." 

Yet,  as  we  suggested  above,  the  most  constant  strain,  after  all,  was  that  which  found 
so  full  expression  in  "  The  Eternal  Goodness."  So  pervasive  in  Whittier's  mind  was  this 
thought  of  God  that  it  did  not  so  much  seek  occasion  for  formal  utterance,  as  it  used  with 
the  naturalness  of  breathing  such  opportunities  as  arose,  touching  with  light  one  theme 
after  another,  and  forming,  indeed,  the  last  whispered  voice  heard  from  his  lips,  "  Love 
to  all  the  world." 

It  was  a  serene  life  of  the  spirit  which  Whittier  led  in  the  closing  years  of  his  life, 
and  he  was  secure  in  friendship  and  the  shelter  of  home.  He  read,  he  saw  his  neighbors 
and  friends,  he  wrote  letters,  he  took  the  liveliest  interest  in  current  affairs,  especially 


BIOGRAPHICAL   SKETCH  xix 

in  politics.  He  bad  been  a  Presidential  elector  in  both  the  Lincoln  campaigns  ;  so  that 
he  used  humorously  to  say  that  he  was  the  only  person  who  had  had  the  opportunity  to 
vote  for  Lincoln  four  times.  He  was  much  sought  after  for  occasional  poems,  and  he 
complied  with  these  requests  from  time  to  time,  as  in  his  "  Centennial  Hymn,"  "  In  the 
Old  South,"  "  The  Bartholdi  Statue,"  "  One  of  the  Signers,"  and  "  Haverhill  ; "  but  he 
was  quite  as  likely  to  take  hint  from  an  occasion  without  the  asking.  Yet  all  this  time 
he  was  assailed  by  infirmities  which  would  have  shaken  the  serenity  of  most.  He  suffered 
intensely  from  neuralgic  disorders,  and  was  sadly  broken  in  the  last  years  of  his  life. 

He  sang  up  to  the  end,  one  may  say.  A  few  weeks  before  his  death,  he  wrote  the 
verses  to  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes  which  stand  at  the  completion  of  this  collection  in  the 
division  "  At  Sundown."  True  to  the  controlling  spirit  of  his  life,  he  sinp;s,  — 

"  The  hour  draws  near,  howe'er  delayed  and  late, 

When  at  the  Eternal  Gate 

We  leave  the  words  and  works  we  call  our  own, 
And  lift  void  hands  alone 

"  For  love  to  fill.     Our  nakedness  of  soul 

Brings  to  that  Gate  no  toll ; 
Giftless  we  come  to  Him,  who  all  things  gives, 
And  live  because  He  lives." 

He  died  at  Hampton  Falls,  New  Hampshire,  September  7, 1892,  in  the  eighty-fifth  year 
Cf  his  age. 

EL  E.  S 


INTRODUCTION 

THE  edition  of  my  poems  published  in  1857  contained  the  following  note  by  way 
of  preface  :  — 

"  In  these  volumes,  for  the  first  time,  a  complete  collection  of  my  poetical  writ 
ings  has  been  made.  While  it  is  satisfactory  to  know  that  these  scattered  children 
of  my  brain  have  found  a  home,  I  cannot  but  regret  that  I  have  been  unable,  by 
reason  of  illness,  to  give  that  attention  to  their  revision  and  arrangement  which 
respect  for  the  opinions  of  others  and  my  own  afterthought  and  experience  demand. 

"  That  there  are  pieces  in  this  collection  which  I  would  '  willingly  let  die,'  I  am 
free  to  confess.  But  it  is  now  too  late  to  disown  them,  and  I  must  submit  to  the 
inevitable  penalty  of  poetical  as  well  as  other  sins.  There  are  others,  intimately 
connected  with  the  author's  life  and  times,  which  owe  their  tenacity  of  vitality  to 
the  circumstances  under  which  they  were  written,  and  the  events  by  which  they 
were  suggested. 

"  The  long  poem  of  '  Mogg  Megone  '  was  in  a  great  measure  composed  in  early 
life ;  and  it  is  scarcely  necessary  to  say  that  its  subject  is  not  such  as  the  writer 
would  have  chosen  at  any  subsequent  period." 

After  a  lapse  of  thirty  years  since  the  above  was  written,  I  have  been  requested 
by  my  publishers  to  make  some  preparation  for  a  new  and  revised  edition  of  my 
poems.  I  cannot  flatter  myself  that  I  have  added  much  to  the  interest  of  the  work 
beyond  the  correction  of  my  own  errors  and  those  of  the  press,  with  the  addition 
of  a  few  heretofore  unpublished  pieces,  and  occasional  notes  of  explanation  which 
seemed  necessary.  I  have  made  an  attempt  to  classify  the  poems  under  a  few  gen 
eral  heads,  and  have  transferred  the  long  poem  of  "  Mogg  Megone  "  to  the  Appen 
dix,  with  other  specimens  of  my  earlier  writings.  I  have  endeavored  to  affix  the 
dates  of  composition  or  publication  as  far  as  possible. 

In  looking  over  these  poems  I  have  not  been  unmindful  of  occasional  prosaic 
lines  and  verbal  infelicities,  but  at  this  late  day  I  have  neither  strength  nor  patience 
to  undertake  their  correction. 

Perhaps  a  word  of  explanation  may  be  needed  in  regard  to  a  class  of  poems 
written  between  the  years  1832  and  1865.  Of  their  defects  from  an  artistic  point 
of  view  it  is  not  necessary  to  speak.  They  were  the  earnest  and  often  vehement 
expression  of  the  writer's  thought  and  feeling  at  critical  periods  in  the  great  con 
flict  between  Freedom  and  Slavery.  They  were  written  with  no  expectation  that 
they  would  survive  the  occasions  which  called  them  forth:  they  were  protests, 
alarm  signals,  trumpet-calls  to  action,  words  wrung  from  the  writer's  heart,  forged 

Ml 


xxii  INTRODUCTION 

at  white  heat,  and  of  course  lacking  the  finish  and  careful  word-selection  which  re« 
flection  and  patient  brooding  over  them  might  have  given.  Such  as  they  are,  they 
belong  to  the  history  of  the  Anti-Slavery  movement,  and  may  serve  as  way-marks 
of  its  progress.  If  their  language  at  times  seems  severe  and  harsh,  the  monstrous 
wrong  of  Slavery  which  provoked  it  must  be  its  excuse,  if  any  is  needed.  In  at 
tacking  it,  we  did  not  measure  our  words.  "  It  is,"  said  Garrison,  "  a  waste  of 
politeness  to  be  courteous  to  the  devil."  But  in  truth  the  contest  was,  in  a  great 
measure,  an  impersonal  one,  —  hatred  of  slavery  and  not  of  slave-masters. 

"  No  common  wrong1  provoked  our  zeal, 
The  silken  gauntlet  which  is  thrown 
In  such  a  quarrel  rings  like  steel." 

Even  Thomas  Jefferson,  in  his  terrible  denunciation  of  Slavery  in  the  "  Notes  on 
Virginia,"  says  :  "  It  is  impossible  to  be  temperate  and  pursue  the  subject  of 
Slavery." 

After  the  great  contest  was  over,  no  class  of  the  American  people  were  more 
ready,  with  kind  words  and  deprecation  of  harsh  retaliation,  to  welcome  back  the 
revolted  States  than  the  Abolitionists ;  and  none  have  since  more  heartily  rejoiced 
at  the  fast  increasing  prosperity  of  the  South. 

Grateful  for  the  measure  of  favor  which  has  been  accorded  to  my  writings,  I 
leave  this  edition  with  the  public.  It  contains  all  that  I  care  to  republish,  and 
some  things  which,  had  the  matter  of  choice  been  left  solely  to  myself,  I  should 
have  omitted. 

J.  G.  W. 


PROEM 

[Written  to  introduce  the  first  general  collection  of  Whittier's  Poems.] 

I  LOVE  the  old  melodious  lays 
Which  softly  melt  the  ages  through. 

The  songs  of  Spenser's  golden  days, 

Arcadian  Sidney's  silvery  phrase, 
Sprinkling  our  noon  of  time  with  freshest  morning  dew. 

Yet,  vainly  in  my  quiet  hours 
To  breathe  their  marvellous  notes  I  try  ; 

I  feel  them,  as  the  leaves  and  flowers 

In  silence  feel  the  dewy  showers, 
And  drink  with  glad,  still  lips  the  blessing  of  the  sky. 

The  rigor  of  a  frozen  clime, 
The  harshness  of  an  untaught  ear, 

The  jarring  words  of  one  whose  rhyme 

Beat  often  Labor's  hurried  time, 
Or  Duty's  rugged  march  through  storm  and  strife,  are  her 

Of  mystic  beauty,  dreamy  grace, 
No  rounded  art  the  lack  supplies  ; 

Unskilled  the  subtle  lines  to  trace, 

Or  softer  shades  of  Nature's  face, 
I  view  her  common  forms  with  unanointed  eyes. 

Nor  mine  the  seer-like  power  to  show 
The  secrets  of  the  heart  and  mind  ; 

To  drop  the  plummet-line  below 

Our  common  world  of  joy  and  woe, 
A  more  intense  despair  or  brighter  hope  to  find. 

Yet  here  at  least  an  earnest  sense 
Of  human  right  and  weal  is  shown  ; 

A  hate  of  tyranny  intense, 

And  hearty  in  its  vehemence, 
As  if  my  brother's  pain  and  sorrow  were  my  t>wn. 

0  Freedom  !  if  to  me  belong 
Nor  mighty  Milton's  gift  divine, 

Nor  Marvell's  wit  and  graceful  song, 

Still  with  a  love  as  deep  and  strong 
As  theirs,  I  lay,  like  them,  my  best  gifts  on  thy  shrine 

AMESBUKY,  llth  mo.,  1847. 


NARRATIVE  AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


THE   VAUDOIS    TEACHER 

This  poem  was  suggested  by  the  account 
given  of  the  manner  in  which  the  Waldenses 
disseminated  their  principles  among1  the  Cath 
olic  gentry.  They  gained  access  to  the  house 
through  their  occupation  as  peddlers  of  silks, 
jewels,  and  trinkets.  "  Having  disposed  of 
some  of  their  goods,"  it  is  said  by  a  writer 
who  quotes  the  inquisitor  Rainerus  Sacco, 
"  they  cautiously  intimated  that  they  had 
commodities  far  more  valuable  than  these, 
inestimable  jewels,  which  they  would  show  if 
they  could  be  protected  from  the  clergy. 
They  would  then  give  their  purchasers  a  Bible 
or  Testament ;  and  thereby  many  were  deluded 
into  heresy." 

The  poem,  under  the  title  Le  Colporteur 
Vaudois,  was  translated  into  French  by  Pro 
fessor  G.  de  Felice,  of  Montauban,  and  further 
naturalized  by  Professor  Alexandre  Rodolphe 
Vinet,  who  quoted  it  in  his  lectures  on  French 
literature,  afterwards  published.  It  became 
familiar  in  this  form  to  the  Waldenses,  who 
adopted  it  as  a  household  poem.  An  American 
clergyman,  J.  C.  Fletcher,  frequently  heard  it 
when  he  was  a  student,  about  the  year  1850,  in 
the  theological  seminary  at  Geneva,  Switzerland, 
but  the  authorship  of  the  poem  was  unknown 
to  those  who  used  it.  Twenty-five  years  later, 
Mr.  Fletcher,  learning  the  name  of  the  author, 
wrote  to  the  moderator  of  the  Walderisian 
synod  at  La  Tour,  giving  the  information.  At 
the  banquet  which  closed  the  meeting  of  the 
synod,  the  moderator  announced  the  fact,  and 
was  instructed  in  the  name  of  the  Waldensian 
church  to  write  to  me  a  letter  of  thanks  My 
letter,  written  in  reply,  was  translated  into 
Italian  and  printed  throughout  Italy. 

"  O  LADY  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beau- 

tifiil  and  rare,  — 
The  richest  web  of  the  Indian  loom,  which 

beauty's  queen  might  wear  ; 
And  my  pearls  are  pure  as  thy  own  fair  neck, 

with  whose  radiant  light  they  vie; 
I  have   brought   them  with   me    a  weary 

way,  —  will  my  gentle  lady  buy  ?  " 


The   lady   smiled   on  the   worn   old  man 

through    the    dark   and   clustering 

curls 
Which  veiled  her  brow,  as  she  bent  to  view 

his  silks  and  glittering  pearls  ; 
And  she  placed  their  price  in  the  old  man's 

hand  and  lightly  turned  away, 
But  she  paused  at  the  wanderer's  earnest 

call,  —  "  My  gentle  lady,  stay  ! 

"  O  lady  fair,  I  have  yet  a  gem  which  a 

purer  lustre  flings, 
Than  the    diamond   flash  of   the  jewelled 

crown  on  the  lofty  brow  of  kings  ; 
A   wonderful    pearl   of    exceeding    price, 

whose  virtue  shall  not  decay, 
Whose  light  shall  be  as  a  spell  to  thee  and 

a  blessing  on  thy  way  !  " 

The  lady  glanced  at  the   mirroring   steel 

where  her  form  of  grace  was  seen, 
Where  her  eye  shone  clear,  and  her  dark 

locks  waved   their   clasping    pearls 

between  ; 
"  Bring  forth  thy  pearl  of  exceeding  worth, 

thou  traveller  gray  and  old, 
And  name  the  price  of  thy  precious  gem, 

and  my  page  shall  count  thy  gold." 

The    cloud   went   off    from   the    pilgrim's 

brow,  as  a  small  and  meagre  book, 
Unchased  with  gold  or  gem  of  cost,  from 

his  folding  robe  he  took  ! 
"  Here,  lady  fair,  is  the  pearl  of  price,  may 

it  prove  as  such  to  thee  ! 
Nay,  keep  thy  gold  —  I  ask  it  not,  for  the 

word  of  God  is  free  !  " 

The  hoary  traveller  went  his  way,  but  the 

gift  he  left  behind 
Hath  had  its  pure  and  perfect  work   OD 

that  highborn  maiden's  mind, 
And  she  hath  turned  from  the  pride  of  sin 

to  the  lowliness  of  truth, 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


And  given  her  human  heart  to  God  in  its 
beautiful  hour  of  youth  ! 

And  she  hath  left  the  gray  old  halls,  where 

an  evil  faith  had  power, 
The  courtly  knights  of  her  father's  train, 

and  the  maidens  of  her  bower  ; 
And  she  hath  gone  to  the  Vaudois  vales  by 

lordly  feet  untrod, 
Where  the  poor  and  needy  of   earth  are 

rich  in  the  perfect  love  of  God  ! 


THE   FEMALE    MARTYR 

Mary  G— — ,  aged  eighteen,  a  "Sister  of 
Charity,"  died  in  one  of  our  Atlantic  cities, 
during  the  prevalence  of  the  Indian  cholera, 
while  in  voluntary  attendance  upon  the  sick. 

"  BRING  out  your  dead  !  "     The  midnight 

street 
Heard  and  gave  back  the    hoarse,  low 

call; 

Harsh  fell  the  tread  of  hasty  feet, 
Glanced  through  the  dark  the  coarse  white 

sheet, 

Her  coffin  and  her  pall. 
"  What  —  only  one  !  "  the  brutal  hack-man 

said, 
As,  with  an  oath,  he  spurned  away  the  dead. 

How  sunk  the  inmost  hearts  of  all, 

As  rolled  that  dead-cart  slowly  by, 
With  creaking  wheel  and  harsh  hoof-fall  ! 
The  dying  turned  him  to  the  wall, 

To  hear  it  and  to  die  ! 
Onward   it   rolled  ;   while    oft   its    driver 

stayed, 

And  hoarsely  clamored,  "  Ho  !  bring  out 
your  dead." 

It  paused  beside  the  burial-place  ; 

"  Toss  in  your  load  !  "  and  it  was  done. 
With  quick  hand  and  averted  face, 
Hastily  to  the  grave's  embrace 

They  cast  them,  one  by  one, 
Stranger  and  friend,  the  evil  and  the  just, 
Together  trodden  in  the  churchyard  dust  ! 

And  thou,  young  martyr  !  thou  wast  there  ; 

No  white-robed  sisters  round  thee  trod, 
Nor  holy  hymn,  nor  funeral  prayer 
Rose  through  the  damp  and  noisome  air, 

Giving  thee  to  thy  God  ; 


Nor  flower,  nor  cross,  nor  hallowed  tape* 

gave 
Grace  to  the  dead,  and  beauty  to  the  grave  ! 

Yet,  gentle  sufferer  !  there  shall  be, 

In  every  heart  of  kindly  feeling, 
A  rite  as  holy  paid  to  thee 
As  if  beneath  the  convent-tree 

Thy  sisterhood  were  kneeling, 
At   vesper   hours,    like    sorrowing    angels, 

keeping 

Their  tearful  watch  around  thy  place  of 
sleeping. 

For  thou  wast  one  in  whom  the  light 

Of  Heaven's  own  love  was  kindled  well ; 
Enduring  with  a  martyr's  might, 
Through  weary  day  and  wakeful  night, 

Far  more  than  words  may  tell  : 
Gentle,  and  meek,  and  lowly,  and  unknown, 
Thy  mercies  measured  by  thy  God  alone  ! 

Where  manly  hearts  were  failing,  where 

The  throngf  ul  street  grew  foul  with  death, 
O  high-souled  martyr  !  thou  wast  there, 
Inhaling,  from  the  loathsome  air, 

Poison  with  every  breath. 
Yet  shrinking  not  from  offices  of  dread 
For  the  wrung  dying,  and  the  unconscious 
dead. 

And,  where  the  sickly  taper  shed 

Its  light  through  vapors,  damp,  confined, 

Hushed  as  a  seraph's  fell  thy  tread, 

A  new  Electra  by  the  bed 
Of  suffering  human-kind  ! 

Pointing  the  spirit,  in  its  dark  dismay, 

To  that  pure  hope  which  fadeth  not  away. 

Innocent  teacher  of  the  high 
And  holy  mysteries  of  Heaven  ! 

How  turned  to  thee  each  glazing  eye, 

In  mute  and  awful  sympathy, 
As  thy  low  prayers  were  given  ; 

And   the    o'er-hovering  Spoiler  wore,  the 
while, 

An  angel's  features,  a  deliverer's  smile  ! 

A  blessed  task  !  and  worthy  one 

Who,  turning  from  the  world,  as  thou, 
Before  life's  pathway  had  begun 
To  leave  its  spring-time  flower  and  sun, 

Had  sealed  her  early  vow  ; 
Giving  to  God  her  beauty  and  her  youth, 
Her  pure  affections  and  her  guileless  truth 


:A   NEW   ENGLAND   LEGEND" 


Earth  may  not  claim  thee.     Nothing  here 
Could  be  for  thee  a  meet  reward  ; 

Thine  is  a  treasure  far  more  dear  : 

Eye  hath  not  seen  it,  nor  the  ear 
Of  living  mortal  heard 

The    joys    prepared,    the    promised    bliss 
above, 

The  holy  presence  of  Eternal  Love  ! 

Sleep  on  in  peace.     The  earth  has  not 
A  nobler  name  than  thine  shall  be. 

The  deeds  by  martial  manhood  wrought, 

The  lofty  energies  of  thought, 
The  fire  of  poesy, 

These  have  but  frail  and  fading  honors  ; 
thine 

Shall  Time  unto  Eternity  consign. 

Yea,    and    when    thrones    shall    crumble 

down, 

And  human  pride  and  grandeur  fall, 
The  herald's  line  of  long  renown, 
The  mitre  and  the  kingly  crown,  — 

Perishing  glories  all  ! 
The  pure  devotion  of  thy  generous  heart 
Shall   live   in  Heaven,  of  which   it  was  a 
part. 


EXTRACT   FROM   "A   NEW  ENG 
LAND    LEGEND" 

Originally  a  part  of  the  author's  Moll  Pitcher. 

How  has  New  England's  romance  fled, 

Even  as  a  vision  of  the  morning  ! 
Its  rites  foredone,  its  guardians  dead, 
Its  priestesses,  bereft  of  dread, 

Waking  the  veriest  urchin's  scorning  ! 
Gone  like  the  Indian  wizard's  yell 

And  fire-dance  round  the  magic  rock, 
Forgotten  like  the  Druid's  spell 

At  moonrise  by  his  holy  oak  ! 
No  more  along  the  shadowy  glen 
Glide  the  dim  ghosts  of  murdered  men  ; 
No  more  the  unquiet  churchyard  dead 
Glimpse  upward  from  their  turfy  bed, 

Startling  the  traveller,  late  and  lone  ; 
As,  on  some  night  of  starless  weather, 
They  silently  commune  together, 

Each  sitting  on  his  own  head-stone  ! 
The  roofless  house,  decayed,  deserted, 
Its  living  tenants  all  departed, 
No  longer  rings  with  midnight  revel 
Of  witch,  or  ghost,  or  goblin  evil  ; 


No  pale  blue  flame  sends  out  its  flashes 
Through     creviced    roof     and     shattered 

sashes  ! 

The  witch-grass  round  the  hazel  spring 
May  sharply  to  the  night-air  sing, 
But  there  no  more  shall  withered  hags 
Refresh  at  ease  their  broomstick  nags, 
Or  taste  those  hazel-shadowed  waters 
As  beverage  meet  for  Satan's  daughters ; 
No  more  their  mimic  tones  be  heard, 
The  mew  of  cat,  the  chirp  of  bird, 
Shrill  blending  with  the  hoarser  laughter 
Of  the  fell  demon  following  after  ! 
The  cautious  goodman  nails  no  more 
A  horseshoe  on  his  outer  door, 
Lest  some  unseemly  hag  should  fit 
To  his  own  mouth  her  bridle-bit  ; 
The  goodwife's  churn  no  more  refuses 
Its  wonted  culinary  uses 
Until,  with  heated  needle  burned, 
The  witch  has  to  her  place  returned  ! 
Our  witches  are  no  longer  old 
And  wrinkled  beldames,  Satan-sold, 
But  young  and  gay  and  laughing  creatures, 
With   the   heart's  sunshine  on   their   fea 
tures  ; 

Their  sorcery  —  the  li^ht  which  dances 
Where  the  raised  lid  unveils  its  glances  ; 
Or  that  low-breathed  and  gentle  tone, 

The  music  of  Love's  twilight  hours, 
Soft,  dream-like,  as  a  fairy's  moan 

Above  her  nightly  closing  flowers, 
Sweeter  than  that  which  sighed  of  yore 
Along  the  charmed  Ausonian  shore  ! 
Even  she,  our  own  weird  heroine, 
Sole  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn, 

Sleeps    calmly    where    the    living    laid 

her  ; 

And  the  wide  realm  of  sorcery, 
Left  by  its  latest  mistress  free, 

Hath  found  no  gray  and  skilled  invader. 
So  perished  Albion's  "  glammarye," 

With  him  in  Melrose  Abbey  sleeping, 
His  charmed  torch  beside  his  knee, 
That  even  the  dead  himself  might  see 

The  magic  scroll  within  his  keeping. 
And  now  our  modern  Yankee  sees 
Nor  omens,  spells,  nor  mysteries  ; 
And  naught  above,  below,  around, 
Of  life  or  death,  of  sight  or  sound, 

Whate'er  its  nature,  form,  or  look, 
Excites  his  terror  or  surprise,  — 
All  seeming  to  his  knowing  eyes 
Familiar  as  his  "  catechise," 

Or  «  Webster's  Spelling-Book." 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


THE    DEMON    OF    THE    STUDY 

THE  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman's  room, 
And  eats  his  meat  and  drinks  his  ale, 

And  beats  the  maid  with  her  unused  broom, 
And  the  lazy  lout  with  his  idle  flail  ; 

But  he  sweeps  the  floor  and  threshes  the 
corn, 

And  hies  him  away  ere  the  break  of  dawn. 

The  shade  of  Denmark  fled  from  the  sun, 
And  the  Cocklane  ghost  from  the  barn- 
loft  cheer, 

The  fiend  of  Faust  was  a  faithful  one, 
Agrippa's  demon  wrought  in  fear, 

And  the  devil  of  Martin  Luther  sat 

By  the  stout  monk's  side  in  social  chat. 

The  Old  Man  of  the  Sea,  on  the  neck  of 

him 

Who  seven  times  crossed  the  deep, 
Twined   closely    each   lean    and   withered 

limb, 

Like  the  nightmare  in  one's  sleep. 
But  he   drank   of   the  wine,  and   Sindbad 

cast 
The  evil  weight  from  his  back  at  last. 

But  the  demon  that  cometh  day  by  day 
To  my  quiet  room  and  fireside  nook, 

Where  the  casement  light  falls  dim   and 

gray 
On  faded  painting  and  ancient  book, 

Is  a  sorrier  one  than  any  whose  names 

Are  chronicled  well  by  good  King  James. 

No  bearer  of  burdens  like  Caliban, 
No  runner  of  errands  like  Ariel, 

He  comes  in  the  shape  of  a  fat  old  man, 
Without  rap  of  knuckle  or  pull  of  bell  ; 

And  whence  he  comes,  or  whither  he  goes, 

I  know  as  I  do  of  the  wind  which  blows. 

A  stout  old  man  with  a  greasy  hat 

Slouched  heavily  down  to  his  dark,  red 
nose, 

And  two  gray  eyes  enveloped  in  fat, 

Looking  through  glasses  with  iron  bows. 

Read  ye,  and  heed  ye,  and  ye  who  can, 

Guard  well  your  doors  from  that  old  man  ! 

He  comes  with  a  careless  "  How  d'  ye  do  ?  " 
And  seats  himself  in  my  elbow-chair  ; 

And  my  morning  paper  and  pamphlet  new 
Fall  forthwith  under  his  special  care, 


And  he  wipes  his  glasses  and  clears  his 

throat, 
And,  button  by  button,  unfolds  his  coat. 

And  then  he  reads  from  paper  and  book, 
In  a  low  and  husky  asthmatic  tone, 

With  the  stolid  sameness  of   posture  and 

look 
Of  one  who  reads  to  himself  alone  ; 

And  hour  after  hour  on  my  senses  come 

That  husky  wheeze  and  that  dolorous  hum. 

The  price  of  stocks,  the  auction  sales, 
The  poet's  song  and  the  lover's  glee, 

The  horrible  murders,  the  seaboard  gales, 
The  marriage  list,  and  ihejeu  d'esprit, 

All  reach  my  ear  in  the  self-same  tone,  — 

I  shudder  at  each,  but  the  fiend  reads  on ! 

Oh,  sweet  as  the  lapse  of  water  at  noon 

O'er  the  mossy  roots  of  some  forest  tree, 
The  sigh  of  the  wind  in  the  woods  of  June, 

Or  sound  of  flutes  o'er  a  moonlight  sea, 
Or  the   low  soft  music,  perchance,  which 

seems 

To  float  through  the  slumbering   singer's 
dreams, 

So  sweet,  so  dear  is  the  silvery  tone, 

Of  her  in  whose  features  I  sometimes  look, 

As  I  sit  at  eve  by  her  side  alone, 

And  we  read  by  turns,  from  the  self-same 
book, 

Some  tale  perhaps  of  the  olden  time, 

Some  lover's  romance  or  quaint  old  rhyme. 

Then  when  the  story  is  one  of  woe,  — 
Some  prisoner's  plaint  through  his  dun* 
geon-bar, 

Her  blue  eye  glistens  with  tears,  and  low 
Her  voice  sinks  down  like  a  moan  afar  ; 

And  I  seem  to  hear  that  prisoner's  wail, 

And  his  face  looks  011  me  worn  and  pale. 

And  when  she  reads  some  merrier  song, 
Her  voice  is  glad  as  an  April  bird's, 

And  when  the  tale  is  of  war  and  wrong, 
A  trumpet's  summons  is  in  her  words, 

And  the  rush  of  the  hosts  I  seem  to  hear, 

And  see  the  tossing  of  plume  and  spear  ! 

Oh,  pity  me  then,  when,  day  by  day, 

The  stout  fiend  darkens  my  parlor  door  ; 

And  reads  me  perchance  the  self-same  lay 
Which  melted  in  music,  the  night  before, 


THE  FOUNTAIN 


From  lips  as  the  lips  of  Hylas  sweet, 
And  moved  like  twin  roses  which  zephyrs 
meet ! 

I  cross  my  floor  with  a  nervous  tread, 
I  whistle  and  laugh  and  sing  and  shout, 

I  flourish  my  cane  above  his  head, 
And  stir  up  the  fire  to  roast  him  out ; 

I  topple  the  chairs,  and  drum  on  the  pane, 

And  press  my  hands  on  my  ears,  in  vain  ! 

I've  studied  Glanville  and  James  the  wise, 
And  wizard  black-letter  tomes  which  treat 

Of  demons  of  every  name  and  size 

Which  a  Christian  man  is  presumed  to 
meet, 

But  never  a  hint  and  never  a  line 

Can  I  find  of  a  reading  fiend  like  mine. 

I've   crossed  the  Psalter  with  Brady  and 
Tate, 

And  laid  the  Primer  above  them  all, 
I  've  nailed  a  horseshoe  over  the  grate, 

And  hung  a  wig  to  my  parlor  wall 
Once  worn  by  a  learned  Judge,  they  say, 
At  Salem  court  in  the  witchcraft  day  ! 

"  Conjuro  te,  sceleratissime, 

A  hire  ad  tuum  locum  I"  —  still 
Like  a  visible  nightmare  he  sits  by  me, — 

The  exorcism  has  lost  its  skill  ; 
And  I  hear  again  in  my  haunted  room 
The  husky  wheeze  and  the  dolorous  hum  ! 

Ah  !  commend  me  to  Mary  Magdalen 
With    her    sevenfold     plagues,    to    the 
wandering  Jew, 

To  the  terrors  which  haunted  Orestes  when 
The  furies  his  midnight  curtains  drew, 

But  charm  him  off,  ye  who  charm  him  can, 

That  reading  demon,  that  fat  old  man  ! 


THE   FOUNTAIN 

On  the  declivity  of  a  hill  in  Salisbury,  Essex 
County,  is  a  fountain  of  clear  water,  gushing- 
from  the  very  roots  of  a  venerable  oak.  It  is 
about  two  miles  from  the  junction  of  the 
Powow  River  with  the  Merrimac. 

TRAVELLER  !  on  thy  journey  toiling 

By  the  swift  Powow, 
With  the  summer  sunshine  falling 

On  thy  heated  brow, 


Listen,  while  all  else  is  still, 
To  the  brooklet  from  the  hill. 

Wild  and  sweet  the  flowers  are  blowing 

By  that  streamlet's  side, 
And  a  greener  verdure  showing 

Where  its  waters  glide, 
Down  the  hill-slope  murmuring  on, 
Over  root  and  mossy  stone. 

WTiere  yon  oak  his  broad  arms  flingeth 

O'er  the  sloping  hill, 
Beautiful  and  freshly  springeth 

That  soft-flowing  rill, 
Through  its  dark  roots  wreathed  and  bare, 
Gushing  up  to  sun  and  air. 

Brighter  waters  sparkled  never 

In  that  magic  well, 
Of  whose  gift  of  life  forever 

Ancient  legends  tell, 
In  the  lonely  desert  wasted, 
And  by  mortal  lip  untasted. 

Waters  which  the  proud  Castilian 

Sought  with  longing  eyes, 
Underneath  the  bright  pavilion 

Of  the  Indian  skies, 
Where  his  forest  pathway  lay 
Through  the  blooms  of  Florida. 

Years  ago  a  lonely  stranger, 

With  the  dusky  brow 
Of  the  outcast  forest-ranger, 

Crossed  the  swift  Powow, 
And  betook  him  to  the  rill 
And  the  oak  upon  the  hill. 

O'er  his  face  of  moody  sadness 

For  an  instant  shone 
Something  like  a  gleam  of  gladness, 

As  he  stooped  him  down 
To  the  fountain's  grassy  side, 
And  his  eager  thirst  supplied. 

With  tlie  oak  its  shadow  throwing 

O'er  his  mossy  seat, 
And  the  cool,  sweet  waters  flowing 

Softly  at  his  feet, 
Closely  by  the  fountain's  rim 
That  lone  Indian  seated  him. 

Autumn's  earliest  frost  had  given 

To  the  woods  below 
Hues  of  beauty,  such  as  heaven 


8 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Lendeth  to  its  bow  ; 
And  the  soft  breeze  from  the  west 
Scarcely  broke  their  dreamy  rest. 

Far  behind  was  Ocean  striving 

With  his  chains  of  sand  ; 
Southward,  sunny  glimpses  giving, 

'Twixt  the  swells  of  land, 
Of  its  calm  and  silvery  track, 
Rolled  the  tranquil  Merrimac. 

Over  village,  wood,  and  meadow 

Gazed  that  stranger  man, 
Sadly,  till  the  twilight  shadow 

Over  all  things  ran, 
Save  where  spire  and  westward  pane 
Flashed  the  sunset  back  again. 

Gazing  thus  upon  the  dwelling 

Of  his  warrior  sires, 
Where  no  lingering  trace  was  telling 

Of  their  wigwam  fires, 
Who  the  gloomy  thoughts  might  know 
Of  that  wandering  child  of  woe  ? 

Naked  lay,  in  sunshine  glowing, 

Hills  that  once  had  stood 
Down  their  sides  the  shadows  throwing 

Of  a  mighty  wood, 
Where  the  deer  his  covert  kept, 
And  the  eagle's  pinion  swept  ! 

Where  the  birch  canoe  had  glided 

Down  the  swift  Powow, 
Dark  and  gloomy  bridges  strided 

Those  clear  waters  now  ; 
And  where  once  the  beaver  swam, 
Jarred  the  wheel  and  frowned  the  dam. 

For  the  wood-bird's  merry  singing, 

And  the  hunter's  cheer, 
Iron  clang  and  hammer's  ringing 

Smote  upon  his  ear  ; 
And  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  the  blackened  forges  broke. 

Could  it  be  his  fathers  ever 

Loved  to  linger  here  ? 
These  bare  hills,  this  conquered  river,  — 

Could  they  hold  them  dear, 
With  their  native  loveliness 
Tamed  and  tortured  into  this  ? 

Sadly,  as  the  shades  of  even 
Gathered  o'er  the  hill, 


While  the  western  half  of  heaven 

Blushed  with  sunset  still, 
From  the  fountain's  mossy  seat 
Turned  the  Indian's  weary  feet. 

Year  on  year  hath  flown  forever, 

But  he  came  no  more 
To  the  hillside  on  the  river 

Where  he  came  before. 
But  the  villager  can  tell 
Of  that  strange  man's  visit  welL 

And  the  merry  children,  laden 
With  their  fruits  or  flowers,  — 

Roving  boy  and  laughing  maiden, 
In  their  school-day  hours, 

Love  the  simple  tale  to  tell 

Of  the  Indian  and  his  well. 


PENTUCKET 

The  village  of  Haverhill,  on  the  Merrini; 
called  by  the  Indians  Pentucket,  was  i 
nearly  seventeen  years  a  frontier  town,  a 
during  thirty  years  endured  all  the  horrors 
savage  warfare.  In  the  year  1708,  a  combin 
body  of  French  and  Indians,  under  the  co 
mand  of  De  Chaillons,  and  Hertel  de  Rouvil 
the  infamous  and  bloody  sacker  of  Deerfie 
made  an  attack  upon  the  village,  which  at  tt 
time  contained  only  thirty  houses.  Sixteen 
the  villagers  were  massacred,  and  a  still  larg 
number  made  prisoners.  About  thirty  of  t 
enemy  also  fell,  and  among  them  Hertel 
Rouville.  The  minister  of  the  place,  Ben 
min  Rolfe,  was  killed  by  a  shot  through  ] 
own  door.  In  a  paper  entitled  The  Sore 
War  of  170S,  published  in  my  collection 
Recreations  and  Miscellanies,  I  have  given 
prose  narrative  of  the  surprise  of  Haverhill. 

How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town 
The  mellow  light  of  sunset  shone  ! 
Each  small,  bright  lake,  whose  waters  st 
Mirror  the  forest  and  the  hill, 
Reflected  from  its  waveless  breast 
The  beauty  of  a  cloudless  west, 
Glorious  as  if  a  glimpse  were  given 
Within  the  western  gates  of  heaven, 
Left,  by  the  spirit  of  the  star 
Of  sunset's  holy  hour,  ajar  ! 

Beside  the  river's  tranquil  flood 
The  dark  and  low-walled  dwellings  °*ood 
Where  many  a  rood  of  open  land 
Stretched  up  and  down  on  either  hand, 


THE   NORSEMEN 


With  corn-leaves  waving  freshly  green 
The  thick  and  blackened  stumps  between. 
Behind,  unbroken,  deep  and  dread, 
The  wild,  untravelled  forest  spread, 
Back  to  those  mountains,  white  and  cold, 
Of  which  the  Indian  trapper  told, 
Upon  whose  summits  never  yet 
Was  mortal  foot  in  safety  set. 

Quiet  and  calm  without  a  fear 
Of  danger  darkly  lurking  near, 
The  weary  laborer  left  his  plough, 
The  milkmaid  carolled  by  her  cow  ; 
From  cottage  door  and  household  hearth 
Rose  songs  of  praise,  or  tones  of  mirth. 
At  length  the  murmur  died  away, 
And  silence  on  that  village  lay. 
—  So  slept  Pompeii,  tower  and  hall, 
"Ere  the  quick  earthquake  swallowed  all, 
Undreaming  of  the  fiery  fate 
Which  made  its  dwellings  desolate  ! 

Hours  passed  away.     By  moonlight  sped 
The  Merrimac  along  his  bed. 
Bathed  in  the  pallid  lustre,  stood 
Dark  cottage-wall  and  rock  and  wood, 
Silent,  beneath  that  tranquil  beam, 
As  the  hushed  grouping  of  a  dream. 
Yet  on  the  still  air  crept  a  sound, 
No  bark  of  fox,  nor  rabbit's  bound, 
Nor  stir  of  wings,  nor  waters  flowing, 
Nor  leaves  in  midnight  breezes  blowing. 

Was  that  the  tread  of  many  feet, 
Which  downward  from  the  hillside  beat  ? 
What  forms  were  those  which  darkly  stood 
Just  on  the  margin  of  the  wood  ? 
Charred  tree-stumps  in  the  moonlight  dim, 
Or  paling  rude,  or  leafless  limb  ? 
No,  —  through    the   trees    fierce   eyeballs 

glowed, 

Dark  human  forms  in  moonshine  showed, 
Wild  from  their  native  wilderness, 
With  painted  limbs  and  battle-dress  ! 

A  yell  the  dead  might  wake  to  hear 
Swelled  on  the  night  air,  far  and  clear  ; 
Then  smote  the  Indian  tomahawk 
On  crashing  door  and  shattering  lock  ; 
Then  rang  the  rifle-shot,  and  then 
The  shrill  death-scream  of  stricken  men,  — 
Sank  the  red  axe  in  woman's  brain, 
And  childhood's  cry  arose  in  vain. 
Bursting  through  roof  and  window  came, 
Red,  fast,  and  fierce,  the  kindled  flame, 


And  blended  fire  and  moonlight  glared 
On  still  dead  men  and  scalp-knives  bared. 

The  morning  sun  looked  brightly  through 
The  river  willows,  wet  with  dew. 
No  sound  of  combat  filled  the  air, 
No  shout  was  heard,  nor  gunshot  there  ; 
Yet  still  the  thick  and  sullen  smoke 
From  smouldering  ruins  slowly  broke  ; 
And  on  the  greensward  many  a  stain, 
And,  here  and  there,  the  mangled  slain, 
Told  how  that  midnight  bolt  had  sped 
Pentucket,  on  thy  fated  head  ! 

Even  now  the  villager  can  tell 
Where  Rolfe  beside  his  hearthstone  fell, 
Still  show  the  door  of  wasting  oak, 
Through  which  the  fatal  death-shot  broke, 
And  point  the  curious  stranger  where 
De  Rouville's  corse  lay  grim  and  bare  ; 
Whose  hideous  head,  in  death  still  feared, 
Bore  not  a  trace  of  hair  or  beard  ; 
And  still,  within  the  churchyard  ground, 
Heaves  darkly  up  the  ancient  mound, 
Whose  grass-grown  surface  overlies 
The  victims  of  that  sacrifice. 


THE    NORSEMEN 

In  the  early  part  of  the  present  century,  a 
fragment  of  a  statue,  rudely  chiselled  from 
dark  gray  stone,  was  found  in  the  town  of 
Bradford,  on  the  Merrimac.  Its  origin  must 
be  left  entirely  to  conjecture.  The  fact  that 
the  ancient  Northmen  visited  the  northeast 
coast  of  North  America  and  probably  New 
England,  some  centuries  before  the  discovery 
of  the  western  world  by  Columbus,  is  now  very 
generally  admitted. 

GIFT  from  the  cold  and  silent  Past  1 

A  relic  to  the  present  cast, 

Left  on  the  ever-changing  strand 

Of  shifting  and  unstable  sand, 

Which  wastes  beneath  the  steady  chime 

And  beating  of  the  waves  of  Time  ! 

Who  from  its  bed  of  primal  rock 

First  wrenched  thy  dark,  unshapely  block  ? 

Whose  hand,  of  curious  skill  untaught, 

Thy  rude  and  savage  outline  wrought  ? 

The  waters  of  my  native  stream 
Are  glancing  in  the  sun's  warm  beam  ; 
From  sail-urged  keel  and  flashing  oar 
The  circles  widen  to  its  shore  : 


to 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


And  cultured  field  and  peopled  town 
Slope  to  its  willowed  margin  down. 
Yet,  while  this  morning  breeze  is  bringing 
The  home-life  sound  of  school-bells  ring 
ing' 

And  rolling  wheel,  and  rapid  jar 
Of  the  fire-winged  and  steedless  car, 
And  voices  from  'che  wayside  near 
Come  quick  and  blended  on  my  ear,  — 
A  spell  is  in  this  old  gray  stone, 
My  thoughts  are  with  the  Past  alone  ! 

A  change  !  —  The  steepled  town  no  more 

Stretches  along  the  sail-thronged  shore  ; 

Like  palace-domes  in  sunset's  cloud, 

Fade  sun-gilt  spire  and  mansion  proud : 

Spectrally  rising  where  they  stood, 

I  see  the  old,  primeval  wood  ; 

Dark,  shadow-like,  on  either  hand 

I  see  its  solemn  waste  expand  ; 

It  climbs  the  green  and  cultured  hill, 

It  arches  o'er  the  valley's  rill, 

And  leans  from  cliff  and  crag  to  throw 

Its  wild  arms  o'er  the  stream  below. 

Unchanged,  alone,  the  same  bright  river 

Flows  on,  as  it  will  flow  forever  1 

I  listen,  and  I  hear  the  low 

Soft  ripple  where  its  waters  go  ; 

I  hear  behind  the  panther's  cry, 

The  wild-bird's  scream  goes  thrilling  by, 

And  shyly  on  the  river's  brink 

The  deer  is  stooping  down  to  drink. 

But  hark ! — from  wood  and  rock  flung  back, 
What  sound  comes  up  the  Merrimac  ? 
What  sea-worn  barks  are  those  which  throw 
The  light  spray  from  each  rushing  prow  ? 
Have  they  not  in  the  North  Sea's  blast 
Bowed  to  the  waves  the  straining  mast  ? 
Their  frozen  sails  the  low,  pale  sun 
Of  Thule's  night  has  shone  upon  ; 
Flapped  by  the  sea-wind's  gusty  sweep 
Round  icy  drift,  and  headland  steep. 
Wild  Jutland's  wives  and  Lochlin's  daugh 
ters 

Have  watched  them  fading  o'er  the  waters, 
Lessening  through  driving  mist  and  spray, 
Like  white-winged  sea-birds  on  their  way  ! 

Onward  they  glide,  —  and  now  I  view 
Their  iron-armed  and  stalwart  crew  ; 
Joy  glistens  in  each  wild  blue  eye, 
Turned  to  green  earth  and  summer  sky. 
Each  broad,  seamed  breast  has  cast  aside 
Its  cumbering  vest  of  shaggy  hide  ; 


Bared  to  the  sun  and  soft  warm  air, 
Streams  back  the  Northmen's  yellow  hair 
I  see  the  gleam  of  axe  and  spear, 
A  sound  of  smitten  shields  I  hear, 
Keeping  a  harsh  and  fitting  time 
To  Saga's  chant,  and  Runic  rhyme  ; 
Such  lays  as  Zetland's  Scald  has  sung, 
His  gray  and  naked  isles  among  ; 
Or  muttered  low  at  midnight  hour 
Round  Odin's  mossy  stone  of  power. 
The  wolf  beneath  the  Arctic  moon 
Has  answered  to  that  startling  rune  ; 
The  Gael  has  heard  its  stormy  swell, 
The  light  Frank  knows  its  summons  well  ? 
lona's  sable-stoled  Culdee 
Has  heard  it  sounding  o'er  the  sea, 
And  swept,  with  hoary  beard  and  hair. 
His  altar's  foot  in  trembling  prayer  ! 

'T  is  past,  —  the  'wildering  vision  dies 

In  darkness  on  my  dreaming  eyes  ! 

The  forest  vanishes  in  air, 

Hill-slope  and  vale  lie  starkly  bare; 

I  hear  the  common  tread  of  men, 

And  hum  of  work- day  life  again  ; 

The  mystic  relic  seems  alone 

A  broken  mass  of  common  stone  ; 

And  if  it  be  the  chiselled  limb 

Of  Berserker  or  idol  grim, 

A  fragment  of  Valhalla's  Thor, 

The  stormy  Viking's  god  of  War, 

Or  Praga  of  the  Runic  lay, 

Or  love-awakening  Siona, 

I  know  not,  —  for  no  graven  line, 

Nor  Druid  mark,  nor  Runic  sign, 

Is  left  me  here,  by  which  to  trace 

Its  name,  or  origin,  or  place. 

Yet,  for  this  vision  of  th  3  Past, 

This  glance  upon  its  darkness  cast, 

My  spirit  bows  in  gratitude 

Before  the  Giver  of  all  good, 

Who  fashioned  so  the  human  mind, 

That,  from  the  waste  of  Time  behind, 

A  simple  stone,  or  mound  of  earth, 

Can  summon  the  departed  forth  ; 

Quicken  the  Past  to  life  again. 

The  Present  lose  in  what  bath  been, 

And  in  their  primal  freshness  sliow 

The  buried  forms  of  long  ago. 

As  if  a  portion  of  that  Thought 

By  which  the  Eternal  will  is  wrought, 

Whose  impulse  fills  anew  with  breath 

The  frozen  solitude  of  Death, 

To  mortal  mind  were  sometimes  lent, 

To  mortal  musings  sometimes  sent, 


FUNERAL  TREE  OF  THE  SOKOKIS 


13 


To  whisper  —  even  when  it  seems 
But  Memory's  fantasy  of  dreams  — 
Through  the  mind's  waste  of  woe  and  sin, 
Of  an  immortal  origin  ! 


FUNERAL   TREE   OF   THE 
SOKOKIS 

Polan,  chief  of  the  SokoMs  Indians  of  the 
country  between  Ag'amenticus  and  Casco  Bay, 
was  killed  at  Windhani  on  iSebago  Lake  in  the 
spring  of  1756.  After  the  whites  had  retired, 
the  surviving"  Indians  "  swayed  "  or  bent  down 
a  young1  tree  until  its  roots  were  upturned, 
placed  the  body  of  their  chief  beneath  it,  and 
then  released  the  tree,  which,  in  springing- 
back  to  its  old  position,  covered  the  grave. 
The  Sokokis  were  early  converts  to  the  Catho 
lic  faith.  Most  of  them,  prior  to  the  year  1156, 
had  removed  to  the  French  settlements  on  the 
St.  Francois. 

AROUND  Sebago's  lonely  lake 
There  lingers  not  a  breeze  to  break 
The  mirror  which  its  waters  make. 

The  solemn  pines  along  its  shore, 

The  firs  which  hang  its  gray  rocks  o'er, 

Are  painted  on  its  glassy  floor. 

The  sun  looks  o'er,  with  hazy  eye, 
The  snowy  mountain-tops  which  lie 
Piled  coldly  up  against  the  sky. 

Dazzling    and    white  !     save    where     the 

bleak, 
Wild  winds  have  bared  some  splintering 

peak, 
Or  snow-slide  left  its  dusky  streak. 

Yet  green  are  Saco's  banks  below, 
And  belts  of  spruce  and  cedar  show, 
Dark  fringing  round  those  cones  of  snow. 

The  earth  hath  felt  the  breath  of  spring, 
Though  yet  on  her  deliverer's  wing 
The  lingering  frosts  of  winter  cling. 

Fresh  grasses  fringe  the  meadow-brooks, 
And  mildly  from  its  sunny  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks. 

And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  sweet  birch  and  the  sassafras, 
Upon  the  scarce-felt  breezes  pass. 


Her  tokens  of  renewing  care 
Hath  Nature  scattered  everywhere, 
In  bud  and  flower,  and  warmer  air. 

But  in  their  hour  of  bitterness, 
What  reck  the  broken  Sokokis, 
Beside  their  slaughtered  chief,  of  this  ? 

The  turf's  red  stain  is  yet  undried, 
Scarce  have  the  death-shot  echoes  died 
Along  Sebago's  wooded  side; 

And  silent  now  the  hunters  stand, 
Grouped  darkly,  where  a  swell  of  land 
Slopes  upward  from  the  lake's  white  sand 

Fire  and  the  axe  have  swept  it  bare, 
Save  one  lone  beech,  unclosing  there 
Its  light  leaves  in  the  vernal  air. 

With  grave,  cold  looks,  all  sternly  mute, 
They  break  the  damp  turf  at  its  foot, 
And  bare  its  coiled  and  twisted  root. 

They  heave  the  stubborn  trunk  aside, 
The  firm  roots  from  the  earth  divide,  — 
The  rent  beneath  yawns  dark  and  wide. 

And  there  the  fallen  chief  is  laid, 
In  tasselled  garb  of  skins  arrayed, 
And  girded  with  his  wampum-braid. 

The  silver  cross  he  loved  is  pressed 
Beneath  the  heavy  arms,  which  rest 
Upon  his  scarred  and  naked  breast. 

'T  is  done  :  the  roots  are  backward  sent, 
The  beechen-tree  stands  up  unbent, 
The  Indian's  fitting  monument ! 

When  of  that  sleeper's  broken  race 
Their  green  and  pleasant  dwelling-place, 
Which  knew  them  once,  retains  no  trace  ; 

Oh,  long  may  sunset's  light  be  shed 
As  now  upon  that  beech's  head, 
A  green  memorial  of  the  dead  ! 

There  shall  his  fitting  requiem  be, 
In  northern  winds,  that,  cold  and  free, 
Howl  nightly  in  that  funeral  tree. 

To  their  wild  wail  the  waves  which  break 
Forever  round  that  lonely  lake 
A  solemn  undertone  shall  make  t 


12 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


And  who  shall  deem  the  spot  unblest, 
Where  Nature's  younger  children  rest, 
Lulled  on  their  sorrowing  mother's  breast  ? 

Deem  ye  that  mother  loveth  less 
These  bronzed  forms  of  the  wilderness 
She  foldeth  in  her  long  caress  ? 

As  sweet  o'er  them  her  wild-flowers  blow, 
As  if  with  fairer  hair  and  brow 
The  blue-eyed  Saxon  slept  below. 

What  though  the  places  of  their  rest 
No  priestly  knee  hath  ever  pressed,  — 
No  funeral  rite  nor  prayer  hath  blessed  ? 

What  though  the  bigot's  ban  be  there, 
And  thoughts  of  wailing  and  despair, 
And  cursing  in  the  place  of  prayer  ! 

Yet  Heaven  hath  angels  watching  round 
The  Indian's  lowliest  forest-mound,  — 
And  they  have  made  it  holy  ground. 

There  ceases  man's  frail  judgment  ;  all 
His  powerless  bolts  of  cursing  fall 
Unheeded  on  that  grassy  pall. 

O  peeled  and  hunted  and  reviled, 
Sleep  on,  dark  tenant  of  the  wild  ! 
Great  Nature  owns  her  simple  child  ! 

And  Nature's  God,  to  whom  alone 
The  secret  of  the  heart  is  known,  — 
The  hidden  language  traced  thereon  ; 

Who  from  its  many  cumberings 

Of  form  and  creed,  and  outward  things, 

To  light  the  naked  spirit  brings  ; 

Not  with  our  partial  eye  shall  scan, 
Not  with  our  pride  and  scorn  shall  ban, 
The  spirit  of  our  brother  man  ! 

ST.  JOHN 

The  fierce  rivalry  between  Charles  de  La 
Tour,  a  Protestant,  and  D'Aulnay  Charnasy,  a 
Catholic,  for  the  possession  of  Acadia,  forms 
one  of  the  most  romantic  passages  in  the  history 
of  the  New  World.  La  Tour  received  aid  in  sev 
eral  instances  from  the  Puritan  colony  of  Mas 
sachusetts.  During  one  of  his  voyages  for  the 
purpose  of  obtaining  arms  and  provisions  for 
his  establishment  at  St.  John,  his  castle  was 
attacked  by  D'Aulnay,  and  successfully  de 


fended  by  its  high-spirited  mistress.  A  second 
attack  however  followed  in  the  fourth  month, 
1647,  when  D'Aulnay  was  successful,  and  the 
garrison  was  put  to  the  sword.  Lady  La  Tour 
languished  a  few  days  in  the  hands  of  her  ene 
my,  and  then  died  of  grief. 

"  To  the  winds  give  our  banner  ! 

Bear  homeward  again  !  " 
Cried  the  Lord  of  Acadia, 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne  ! 
From  the  prow  of  his  shallop 

He  gazed,  as  the  sun, 
From  its  bed  in  the  ocean, 

Streamed  up  the  St.  John. 

O'er  the  blue  western  waters 

That  shallop  had  passed, 
Where  the  mists  of  Penobscot 

Clung  damp  on  her  mast. 
St.  Saviour  had  looked 

On  the  heretic  sail, 
As  the  songs  of  the  Huguenot 

Rose  on  the  gale. 

The  pale,  ghostly  fathers 

Remembered  her  well, 
And  had  cursed  her  while  passing, 

With  taper  and  bell  ; 
But  the  men  of  Monhegan, 

Of  Papists  abhorred, 
Had  welcomed  and  feasted 

The  heretic  Lord. 

They  had  loaded  his  shallop 

With  dun-fish  and  ball, 
With  stores  for  his  larder, 

And  steel  for  his  wall. 
Pemaquid,  from  her  bastions 

And  turrets  of  stone, 
Had  welcomed  his  coming 

With  banner  and  gun. 

And  the  prayers  of  the  elders 

Had  followed  his  way, 
As  homeward  he  glided, 

Down  Pentecost  Bay. 
Oh,  well  sped  La  Tour  ! 

For,  in  peril  and  pain, 
His  lady  kept  watch, 

For  his  coming  again. 

O'er  the  Isle  of  the  Pheasant 

The  morning  sun  shone, 
On  the  plane-trees  which  shaded 

The  shores  of  St.  John. 


ST.  JOHN 


"  Now,  why  from  yon  battlements 

Speaks  not  my  love  ! 
Why  waves  there  no  banner 
My  fortress  above  ?  " 

Dark  and  wild,  from  his  deck 

St.  Estienne  gazed  about, 
On  fire-wasted  dwellings, 

And  silent  redoubt ; 
From  the  low,  shattered  wails 

Which  the  flame  had  o'errun, 
There  floated  no  banner, 

There  thundered  no  gun  ! 

But  beneath  the  low  arch 

Of  its  doorway  there  stood 
A  pale  priest  of  Rome, 

In  his  cloak  and  his  hood. 
With  the  bound  of  a  lion, 

La  Tour  sprang  to  land, 
On  the  throat  of  the  Papist 

He  fastened  his  hand. 

"  Speak,  son  of  the  Woman 

Of  scarlet  and  sin! 
What  wolf  has  been  prowling 

My  castle  within?  " 
From  the  grasp  of  the  soldier 

The  Jesuit  broke, 
Half  in  scorn,  half  in  sorrow, 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke  : 

"  No  wolf,  Lord  of  Estienne, 

Has  ravaged  thy  hall, 
But  thy  red-handed  rival, 

With  fire,  steel,  and  ball  ! 
On  an  errand  of  mercy 

I  hitherward  came, 
While  the  walls  of  thy  castle 

Yet  spouted  with  flame. 

«  Pentagoet's  dark  vessels 

Were  moored  in  the  bay, 
Grim  sea-lions,  roaring 

Aloud  for  their  prey." 
"  But  what  of  my  lady  ?  " 

Cried  Charles  of  Estienne. 
"  On  the  shot-crumbled  turret 

Thy  lady  was  seen  : 

*  Half-veiled  in  the  smoke-cloud, 

Her  hand  grasped  thy  pennon, 
While  her  dark  tresses  swayed 
In  the  hot  breath  of  cannon  ! 


But  woe  to  the  heretic, 

Evermore  woe  ! 
When  the  son  of  the  church 

And  the  cross  is  his  foe  ! 

"  In  the  track  of  the  shell, 

In  the  path  of  the  ball, 
Pentagoet  swept  over 

The  breach  of  the  wall ! 
Steel  to  steel,  gun  to  gun, 

One  moment,  —  and  then 
Alone  stood  the  victor, 

Alone  with  his  men  ! 

"  Of  its  sturdy  defenders, 

Thy  lady  alone 
Saw  the  cross-blazoned  banner 

Float  over  St.  John." 
"  Let  the  dastard  look  to  it  !  " 

Cried  fiery  Estienne, 
"  Were  D' Aulnay  King  Louis, 

I  'd  free  her  again  !  " 

"  Alas  for  thy  lady  ! 

No  service  from  thee 
Is  needed  by  her 

Whom  the  Lord  hath  set  free  ; 
Nine  days,  in  stern  silence, 

Her  thraldom  she  bore, 
But  the  tenth  morning  came, 

And  Death  opened  her  door  ! " 

As  if  suddenly  smitten 

La  Tour  staggered  back  ; 
His  hand  grasped  his  sword-hilt, 

His  forehead  grew  black. 
He  sprang  on  the  deck 

Of  his  shallop  again. 
"  We  cruise  now  for  vengeance  ! 

Give  way  !  "  cried  Estienne. 

"  Massachusetts  shall  hear 

Of  the  Huguenot's  wrong, 
And  from  island  and  creekside 

Her  fishers  shall  throng  ! 
Pentagoet  shall  rue 

What  his  Papists  have  done, 
WThen  his  palisades  echo 

The  Puritan's  gun  !  " 

Oh,  the  loveliest  of  heavens 
Hung  tenderly  o'er  him, 

There  were  waves  in  the  sunshine, 
And  green  isles  before  him  ; 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


But  a  pale  hand  was  beckoning 

The  Huguenot  on  ; 
And  in  blackness  and  ashes 

Behind  was  St.  John  ! 


THE  CYPRESS-TREE  OF  CEYLON 

Ibn  Batuta,  the  celebrated  Mussulman  trav 
eller  of  the  fourteenth  century,  speaks  of  a 
cypress-tree  in  Ceylon,  universally  held  sacred 
by  the  natives,  the  leaves  of  which  were  said 
to  fall  only  at  certain  intervals,  and  he  who 
had  the  happiness  to  find  and  eat  one  of  them 
was  restored,  at  once,  to  youth  and  vigor.  The 
traveller  saw  several  venerable  Jogees,  or  saints, 
sitting  silent  and  motionless  under  the  tree. 

THEY  sat  in  silent  watchfulness 
The  sacred  cypress-tree  about, 

And,  from  beneath  old  wrinkled  brows, 
Their  failing  eyes  looked  out. 

Gray  Age  and  Sickness  waiting  there 
Through     weary    night    and    lingering 
day, — 

Grim  as  the  idols  at  their  side, 
And  motionless  as  they. 

Unheeded  in  the  boughs  above 

The  song  of  Ceylon's  birds  was  sweet  ; 

Unseen  of  them  the  island  flowers 
Bloomed  brightly  at  their  feet. 

O'er  them  the  tropic  night-storm  swept, 
The  thunder  crashed  on  rock  and  hill  ; 

The  cloud-fire  on  their  eyeballs  blazed, 
Yet  there  they  waited  still  ! 

What  was  the  world  without  to  them  ? 

The  Moslem's  sunset-call,  the  dance 
Of  Ceylon's  maids,  the  passing  gleam 

Of  battle-flag  and  lance  ? 

They  waited  for  that  falling  leaf 

Of  which  the  wandering  Jogees  sing  : 

Which  lends  once  more  to  wintry  age 
The  greenness  of  its  spring. 

Oh,  if  these  poor  and  blinded  ones 
In  trustful  patience  wait  to  feel 

O'er  torpid  pulse  and  failing  limb 
A  youthful  freshness  steal  ; 

Shall  we,  who  sit  beneath  that  Tree 
Whose  healing  leaves  of  life  are  shed, 


In  answer  to  the  breath  of  prayer, 
Upon  the  waiting  head  — 

Not  to  restore  our  failing  forms, 
And  build  the  spirit's  broken  shrine, 

But  on  the  fainting  soul  to  shed 
A  light  and  life  divine  — 

Shall  we  grow  weary  in  our  watch, 
And  murmur  at  the  long  delay  ? 

Impatient  of  our  Father's  time 
And  His  appointed  way  ? 

Or  shall  the  stir  of  outward  things 
Allure  and  claim  the  Christian's  eye, 

When  on  the  heathen  watcher's  ear 
Their  powerless  murmurs  die  ? 

Alas  !  i  deeper  test  of  faith 

Than  prison  cell  or  martyr's  stake. 

The  self-abasing  watchfulness 
Of  silent  prayer  may  make. 

We  gird  us  bravely  to  rebuke 

Our  erring  brother  in  the  wrong,  — 

And  in  the  ear  of  Pride  and  Power 
Our  warning  voice  is  strong. 

Easier  to  smite  with  Peter's  sword 

Than   "watch   one   hour"  in   humbling 
prayer. 

Life's  "  great  things,"  like  the  Syrian  lord, 
Our  hearts  can  do  and  dare. 

But  oh  !   we  shrink  from  Jordan's  side, 
From  waters  which  alone  can  save; 

And  murmur  for  Abana's  banks 
And  Pharpar's  brighter  wave. 

O  Thou,  who  in  the  garden's  shade 
Didst  wake  Thy  weary  ones  again, 

Who  slumbered  at  that  fearful  hour 
Forgetful  of  Thy  pain  ; 

Bend  o'er  us  now,  as  over  them, 

And  set  our  sleep-bound  spirits  free, 

Nor  leave  us  slumbering  in  the  watch 
Our  souls  should  keep  with  Thee  I 


THE    EXILES 

The  incidents  upon  which  the  following-  bal 
lad  has  its  foundation  occurred  about  the  year 
lb'60.  Thomas  Macy  was  one  of  the  first,  if 


THE   EXILES 


not  the  first  white  settler  of  Nantucket.  The 
career  of  Macy  is  briefly  but  carefully  outlined 
in  James  S.  Pike's  The  New  Puritan. 

THE  goodman  sat  beside  his  door, 

One  sultry  afternoon, 
With  his  young  wife  singing  at  his  side 

Ail  old  and  goodly  tune. 

A  glimmer  of  heat  was  in  the  air,  — 
The  dark  green  woods  were  still  ; 

And  the  skirts  of  a  heavy  thunder-cloud 
Hung  over  the  western  hill. 

Black,  thick,  and  vast  arose  that  cloud 

Above  the  wilderness, 
As  some  dark  world  from  upper  air 

Were  stooping  over  this. 

At  times  the  solemn  thunder  pealed, 

And  all  was  still  again, 
Save  a  low  murmur  in  the  air 

Of  coming  wind  and  rain. 

Just  as  the  first  big  rain-drop  fell, 

A  weary  stranger  came, 
And  stood  before  the  farmer's  door, 

With  travel  soiled  and  lame. 

Sad  seemed  he,  yet  sustaining  hope 

Was  in  his  quiet  glance, 
And     peace,    like     autumn's     moonlight, 
clothed 

His  tranquil  countenance,  — 

A  look,  like  that  his  Master  wore 

In  Pilate's  council-hall: 
It  told  of  wrongs,  but  of  a  love 

Meekly  forgiving  all. 

"  Friend  !     wilt    thou     give     me     shelter 
here  ?  " 

The  stranger  meekly  said  ; 
And,  leaning  on  his  oaken  staff, 

The  goodman's  features  read. 

'l  My  life  is  hunted,  —  evil  men 

Are  following  in  my  track  ; 
The  traces  of  the  torturer's  whip 

Are  on  my  aged  back  ; 

"  And  much,  I  fear,  't  will  peril  thee 

Within  thy  doors  to  take 
A  hunted  seeker  of  the  Truth, 

Oppressed  for  conscience'  sake." 


Oh,  kindly  spoke  the  goodman's  wife, 
;'  Come  in,  old  man  !  "  quoth  she, 

"  We  will  not  leave  thee  to  the  storm, 
Whoever  thou  mayst  be." 

Then  came  the  aged  wanderer  in, 

And  silent  sat  him  down  ; 
While  all  within  grew  dark  as  night 

Beneath  the  storm-cloud's  frown. 

But  while  the  sudden  lightning's  blaze 

Filled  every  cottage  nook, 
And  with  the  jarring  thunder-roll 

The  loosened  casements  shook, 

A  heavy  tramp  of  horses'  feet 

Came  sounding  up  the  lane, 
And  half  a  score  of  horse,  or  more, 

Came  plunging  through  the  rain. 

"  Now,  Goodman  Macy,  ope  thy  door,  — 
We  would  not  be  house-breakers  ; 

A  rueful  deed  thou  'st  done  this  day, 
In  harboring  banished  Quakers." 

Out  looked  the  cautious  goodman  then, 

With  much  of  fear  and  awe, 
For  there,  with  broad  wig  drenched  with 
rain, 

The  parish  priest  he  saw. 

"  Open  thy  door,  thou  wicked  man, 

And  let  thy  pastor  in, 
And  give  God  thanks,  if  forty  stripes 

Repay  thy  deadly  sin." 

"  What  seek  ye  ?  "  quoth  the  goodman  ; 

"  The  stranger  is  my  guest  ; 
He  is  worn  with  toil  and  grievous  wrong,— 

Pray  let  the  old  man  rest." 

"  Now,  out  upon  thee,  canting  knave  !  " 
And  strong  hands  shook  the  door. 

"  Believe  me,  Macy,"  quoth  the  priest, 
"  Thou  'It  rue  thy  conduct  sore." 

Then  kindled  Macy's  eye  of  fire  : 
"  No  priest  who  walks  the  earth, 

Shall  pluck  away  the  stranger-guest 
Made  welcome  to  my  hearch." 

Down  from  his  cottage  wall  he  caught 

The  matchlock,  hotly  tried 
At  Preston-pans  and  Marston-moor, 

By  fiery  Ireton's  side  ; 


i6 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Where  Puritan,  and  Cavalier, 

With  shout  and  psalm  contended; 

And  Rupert's  oath,  and  Cromwell's  prayer, 
With  battle-thunder  blended. 

Up  rose  the  ancient  stranger  then  : 

"  My  spirit  is  not  free 
To  bring  the  wrath  and  violence 

Of  evil  men  on  thee  ; 

"  And  for  thyself,  I  pray  forbear, 

Bethink  thee  of  thy  Lord, 
Who  healed  again  the  smitten  ear, 

And  sheathed  His  follower's  sword. 

"I  go,  as  to  the  slaughter  led. 

Friends  of  the  poor,  farewell  !  " 
Beneath  his  hand  the  oaken  door 

Back  on  its  hinges  fell. 

"  Come  forth,  old  graybeard,  yea  and  nay," 

The  reckless  scoffers  cried, 
As  to  a  horseman's  saddle-bow 

The  old  man's  arms  were  tied. 

And  of  his  bondage  hard  and  long 

In  Boston's  crowded  jail, 
Where    suffering    woman's     prayer     was 
heard, 

With  sickening  childhood's  wail, 

It  suits  not  with  our  tale  to  tell  ; 

Those  scenes  have  passed  away  ; 
Let  the  dim  shadows  of  the  past 

Brood  o'er  that  evil  day. 

"  Ho,  sheriff  !  "  quoth  the  ardent  priest, 

"  Take  Goodman  Macy  too  ; 
The  sin  of  this  day's  heresy 

His  back  or  purse  shall  me." 

"  Now,  goodwife,  haste  thee  !  "  Macy  cried. 

She  caught  his  manly  arm  ; 
Behind,  the  parson  urged  pursuit, 

With  outcry  and  alarm. 

Ho  !    speed  the  Macys,  neck  or  naught,  — 

The  river-course  was  near  ; 
The  plashing  on  its  pebbled  shore 

Was  music  to  their  ear. 

A  gray  rock,  tasselled  o'er  with  birch, 

Above  the  waters  hung, 
And  at  its  base,  with  every  wave, 

A  small  light  wherry  swung. 


A  leap  —  they  gain  the  boat  —  and  there 

JL'he  goodman  wields  his  oar  ; 
"  111  luck  betide  them  all,"  he  cried, 

"  The  laggards  on  the  shore." 

Down  through  the  crashing  underwood, 

The  burly  sheriff  came  :  — 
"  Stand,  Goodman  Macy,  yield  thyself  ; 

Yield  in  the  King's  own  name." 

"  Now  out  upon  thy  hangman's  face  !  " 

Bold  Macy  answered  then,  — 
"  Whip  women,  on  the  village  green, 

But  meddle  not  with  men." 

The  priest  came  panting  to  the  shore, 
His  grave  cocked  hat  was  gone  ; 

Behind  him,  like  some  owl's  nest,  hung 
His  wig  upon  a  thorn. 

"  Come  back !  come  back !  "  the  parson  cried, 

"  The  church's  curse  beware." 
"Curse,  an  thou  wilt,"  said  Macy,  "but 

Thy  blessing  prithee  spare." 

"  Vile  scoffer  !  "  cried  the  baffled  priest, 
"  Thou  'It  yet  the  gallows  see." 

"  Who 's   born  to  be    hanged  will   not   be 

drowned," 
Quoth  Macy,  merrily  ; 

"  And  so,  sir  sheriff  and  priest,  good-by  ! " 

He  bent  him  to  his  oar, 
And  the  small  boat  glided  quietly 

From  the  twain  upon  the  shore. 

Now  in  the  west,  the  heavy  clouds 

Scattered  and  fell  asunder, 
While  feebler  came  the  rush  of  rain. 

And  fainter  growled  the  thunder. 

And  through  the  broken  clouds,  the  sun 

Looked  out  serene  and  tvarm, 
Painting  its  holy  symbol-light 

Upon  the  passing  storm. 

Oh,  beautiful  !  that  rainbow  span, 
O'er  dim  Crane-neck  was  bended  ; 

One  bright  foot  touched  the  eastern  hills. 
And  one  with  ocean  blended. 

By  green  Pentucket's  southern  slope 

The  small  boat  glided  fast  ; 
The  watchers  of  the  Block-house  saw 

The  strangers  as  they  passed. 


THE   KNIGHT   OF    ST.  JOHN 


That  night  a  stalwart  garrison 

Sat  shaking  in  their  shoes, 
To  hear  the  dip  of  Indian  oars, 

The  glide  of  birch  canoes. 

The  fisher-wives  of  Salisbury  — 

The  men  were  all  away  — 
Looked  out  to  see  the  stranger  oar 

Upon  their  waters  play. 

Deer  Island's  rocks  and  fir-trees  threw 
Their  sunset-shadows  o'er  them, 

And  Newbury's  spire  and  weathercock 
Peered  o'er  the  pines  before  them. 

Around  the  Black  Rocks,  on  their  left, 
The  marsh  lay  broixl  and  green  ; 

And   on    their    right    with   dwarf   shrubs 

crowned, 
Plum  Island's  hills  were  seen. 

With  skilful  hand  and  wary  eye 

The  harbor  bar  was  crossed  ; 
A  plaything  of  the  restless  wave, 

The  boat  on  ocean  tossed. 

The  glory  of  the  sunset  heaven 

On  land  and  water  lay  ; 
On  the  steep  hills  of  Agawam, 

On  cape,  and  bluff,  and  bay. 

They  passed  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 

And  Gloucester's  harbor-bar  ; 
The  watch-fire  of  the  garrison 

Shone  like  a  setting  star. 

How  brightly  broke  the  morning 

On  Massachusetts  Bay  ! 
Blue  wave,  and  bright  green  island, 

Rejoicing  in  the  day. 

On  passed  the  bark  in  safety 
Round  isle  and  headland  steep  ; 

No  tempest  broke  above  them, 
No  fog-cloud  veiled  the  deep. 

.Far  round  the  bleak  and  stormy  Cape 

The  venturous  Macy  passed, 
And  on  Nantucket's  naked  isle 

Drew  up  his  boat  at  last. 

And  how,  in  log-built  cabin, 

They  braved  the  rough  sea-weather  ; 
And  there,  in  peace  and  quietness, 

Went  down  life's  vale  together  5 


How  others  drew  around  them, 
And  how  their  fishing  sped, 

Until  to  every  wind  of  heaven 
Nantucket's  sails  were  spread 

How  pale  Want  alternated 
With  Plenty's  golden  smile  ; 

Behold,  is  it  not  written 
In  the  annals  of  the  isle  ? 

And  yet  that  isle  remaineth 

A  refuge  of  the  free, 
As  when  true-hearted  Macy 

Beheld  it  from  the  sea. 

Free  as  the  winds  that  winnoTv 
Her  shrubless  hills  of  sand, 

Free  as  the  waves  that  batter 
Along  her  yielding  land. 

Than  hers,  at  duty's  summons, 

No  loftier  spirit  stirs, 
Nor  falls  o'er  human  suffering 

A  readier  tear  than  hers. 

God  bless  the  sea-beat  island  ! 

And  grant  foreveimore, 
That  charity  and  freedom  dwell 

As  now  upon  her  shore  ! 


THE  KNIGHT  OF  ST.  JOHN 

ERE  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills 

The  sun  shall  sink  again, 
Farewell  to  life  and  all  its  ills, 

Farewell  to  cell  and  chain  ! 

These  prison  shades  are  dark  and  cold, 

But,  darker  far  than  they, 
The  shadow  of  a  sorrow  old 

Is  on  my  heart  alway. 

For  since  the  day  when  Warkworth  wood 

Closed  o'er  my  steed,  and  I, 
An  alien  from  my  name  and  blood, 

A  weed  cast  out  to  die,  — 

When,  looking  back  in  sunset  light, 

I  saw  her  turret  gleam, 
And  from  its  easement,  far  and  white, 

Her  sign  of  farewell  stream, 

Like  one  who,  from  some  desert  shore, 
Doth  home's  green  isles  descry, 


i8 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY  POEMS 


And,  vainly  longing,  gazes  o'er 
The  waste  of  wave  and  sky  ; 

So  from  the  desert  of  my  fate 

I  gaze  across  the  past  ; 
Forever  on  life's  dial-plate 

The  shade  is  backward  cast ! 

I  've  wandered  wide  from  shore  to  shore, 

I  've  knelt  at  many  a  shrine  ; 
And  bowed  me  to  the  rocky  floor 

Where  Bethlehem's  tapers  shine  ; 

And  by  the  Holy  Sepulchre 

I  've  pledged  my  knightly  sword 

To  Christ,  His  blessed  Church,  and  her, 
The  Mother  of  our  Lord. 

Oh,  vain  the  vow,  and  vain  the  strife  ! 

How  vain  do  all  things  seem  ! 
My  soul  is  in  the  past,  and  life 

To-day  is  but  a  dream  ! 

In  vain  the  penance  strange  and  long, 

And  hard  for  flesh  to  bear  ; 
The  prayer,  the  fasting,  and  the  thong, 

And  sackcloth  shirt  of  hair. 

The  eyes  of  memory  will  not  sleep,  — 

Its  ears  are  open  still  ; 
And  vigils  with  the  past  they  keep 

Against  my  feebie  will. 

And  still  the  loves  and  joys  of  old 

Do  evermore  uprise  ; 
I  see  the  flow  of  looks  of  gold, 

The  shine  of  loving  eyes  ! 

Ah  me  !  upon  another's  breast 

Those  goldeu  locks  recline  ; 
I  see  upon  another  rest 

The  glance  that  once  was  mine. 

44  O  faithless  prie«t !    O  perjured  knight !  " 

I  hear  the  Master  cry  ; 
*  Shut  out  the  vision  from  thy  sight, 

Let  Earth  and  Nature  die. 

"  The  Church  of  God  is  now  thy  spouse, 
And  thou  the  bridegroom  art  ; 

Then  let  the  burden  of  thy  vows 
Crush  down  ihy  human  heart ! " 

In  vain  !      This  heart  its  grief  must  know, 
Till  lit*  iUelf  hath  ceased, 


And  falls  beneath  the  self-same  blow 
The  lover  and  the  priest  ! 

O  pitying  Mother  !  souls  of  light, 
And  saints  and  martyrs  old  ! 

Pray  for  a  weak  and  sinful  knight, 
A  suffering  man  uphold. 

Then  let  the  Paynim  work  his  will, 
And  death  unbind  my  chain, 

Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hill 
The  sun  shall  fall  again. 


CASSANDRA   SOUTHWICK 

In  1658  two  young-  persons,  son  and  daughtei 
of  Lawrence  Southwick  of  Salem,  who  had 
himself  been  imprisoned  and  deprived  of  nearly 
all  his  property  for  having  entertained  Quakers 
at  his  house,  were  fined  for  non-attendance  at 
church.  They  being1  unable  to  pay  the  fine,  the 
General  Court  issued  an  order  empowering 
"  the  Treasurer  of  the  County  to  sell  the  said 
persons  to  any  of  the  English  nation  of  Virginia 
or  Barbadoes,  to  answer  said  fines."  An  at 
tempt  was  made  to  carry  this  order  into  execu 
tion,  but  no  shipmaster  was  found  willing  to 
convey  them  to  the  West  Indies. 

To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  bless 
ing  rise  to-day, 

From  the  scoffer  and  the  cruel  He  hath 
plucked  the  spoil  away  ; 

Yea,  He  who  cooled  the  furnace  around  the 
faithful  three, 

And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  hath  set 
His  handmaid  free  ! 

Last  night  I  saw  the  sunset  melt  through 
my  prison  bars, 

Last  night  across  my  damp  earth-floor  fell 
the  pale  gleam  of  stars  ; 

In  the  coldness  and  the  darkness  all  througk 
the  long  night-time, 

My  grated  casement  whitened  with  au 
tumn's  early  rime. 

Alone,  in  that  dark  sorrow,  hour  after  houz 

crept  by  ; 
Star  after  star  looked  palely  in  and  sanh 

adown  the  sky  ; 
No  sound  amid  night's  stillness,  save  that 

which  seemed  to  be 
The  dull  and  heavy  beating  of  the  pulses 

of  the  sea  ; 


CASSANDRA    SOUTHWICK 


All  night  I  sat  unsleeping,  for  I  knew  that 
on  the  morrow 

The  ruler  and  the  cruel  priest  would  mock 
me  in  my  sorrow, 

Dragged  to  their  place  of  market,  and  bar 
gained  for  and  sold, 

Like  a  lamb  before  the  shambles,  like  a 
heifer  from  the  fold  ! 

Oh,  the  weakness  of  the  flesh  was  there,  — 

the  shrinking  and  the  shame  ; 
And   the   low  voice    of   the  Tempter  like 

whispers  to  me  came  : 
"Why    sit'st    thou    thus    forlornly,"    the 

wicked  murmur  said, 
"  Damp  walls   thy  bower  of   beauty,  cold 

earth  thy  maiden  bed  ? 

"Where  be  the  smiling  faces,  and  voices 

soft  and  sweet, 
Seen  in  thy  father's  dwelling,  heard  in  the 

pleasant  street  ? 
Where  be  the  youths  whose  glances,  the 

summer  Sabbath  through, 
Turned    tenderly   and    timidly    unto    thy 

father's  pew  ? 

«  Why  sit'st  thou  here,  Cassandra  ?  —  Be 
think  thee  with  what  mirth 

Thy  happy  schoolmates  gather  around  the 
warm,  bright  hearth  ; 

How  the  crimson  shadows  tremble  on  fore 
heads  white  and  fair, 

On  eyes  of  merry  girlhood,  half  hid  in 
golden  hair. 

"Not  for  thee  the  hearth-fire  brightens, 
not  for  thee  kind  words  are  spoken, 

Not  for  thee  the  nuts  of  Wenham  woods 
by  laughing  boys  are  broken  ; 

No  first-fruits  of  the  orchard  within  thy 
lap  are  laid, 

For  thee  no  flowers  of  autumn  the  youth 
ful  hunters  braid. 

•*  0  weak,  deluded  maiden  !  —  by  crazy 
fancies  led, 

With  wild  and  raving  railers  an  evil  path 
to  tread  ; 

To  leave  a  wholesome  worship,  and  teach 
ing  pure  and  sound, 

And  mate  with  maniac  women,  loose- 
haired  and  sackcloth  bound,  — 

"  Mad  scoffers  of  the  priesthood,  who  mock 
at  things  divine, 


Who  rail  against  the  pulpit,  and  holy 
bread  and  wine  ; 

Sore  from  their  cart-tail  scourgings,  and 
from  the  pillory  lame, 

Rejoicing  in  their  wretchedness,  and  glory 
ing  in  their  shame. 

"  And  what  a  fate  awaits  thee  !  —  a  sadly 

toiling  slave, 
Dragging  the  slowly  lengthening  chain  of 

bondage  to  the  grave  ! 
Think  of  thy  woman's  nature,  subdued  in 

hopeless  thrall, 
The  easy  prey  of  any,  the  scoff  and  scorn 

of  all ! " 

Oh,  ever  as  the  Tempter  spoke,  and  feeble 

Nature's  fears 
WVung  drop  by  drop  the  scalding  flow  oi 

unavailing  tears, 
I  wrestled   down  the    evil   thoughts,   and 

strove  in  silent  prayer, 
To  feel,  O  Helper  of  the  weak  !  that  Thon 

indeed  wert  there  ! 

I  thought  of  Paul  and  Silas,  within  Phi- 

lippi's  cell, 
And  how  from  Peter's  sleeping  limbs  the 

prison  shackles  fell, 
Till  I  seemed  to  hear  the  trailing  of  an 

angel's  robe  of  white, 
And  to  feel  a  blessed  presence  invisible  to 

sight. 

Bless  the  Lord  for  all  his  mercies  !  —  for 

the  peace  and  love  I  felt, 
Like  dew  of  Hermon's  holy  hill,  upon  my 

spirit  melt  ; 
When  "  Get  behind  me,  Satan  ! "  was  the 

language  of  my  heart, 
And  I  felt  the  Evil  Tempter  with  all  his 

doubts  depart. 

Slow  broke  the  gray  cold  morning  ;  again 
the  sunshine  fell, 

Flecked  with  the  shade  of  bar  and  grate 
within  my  lonely  cell  ; 

The  hoar-frost  melted  on  the  wall,  and  up 
ward  from  the  street 

Came  careless  laugh  and  idle  word,  and 
tread  of  passing  feet. 

At  length  the  heavy  bolts  fell  back,  my 

door  was  open  cast, 
And  slowly  at   the  sheriff's  side,  up   the 

long  street  I  passed  ; 


20 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY    POEMS 


I  heard  the   murmur  round  me,  and  felt, 

but  dared  not  see, 
How,    from  every  door  and  window,  the 

people  gazed  on  me. 

And  doubt  and  fear  fell  on  me,  shame 
burned  upon  my  cheek, 

Swam  earth  and  sky  around  me,  my  trem 
bling  limbs  grew  weak: 

*  O  Lord  !  support  thy  handmaid  ;  and 
from  her  soul  cast  out 

The  fear  of  man,  which  brings  a  snare, 
the  weakness  and  the  doubt." 

Then  the  dreary  shadows  scattered,  like  a 

cloud  in  morning's  breeze, 
And  a  low  deep  voice   within  me  seemed 

whispering  words  like  these  : 
"  Though  thy  earth  be  as  the  iron,  and  thy 

heaven  a  brazen  wall, 
Trust    still     His    loving-kindness     whose 

power  is  over  all." 

We  paused  at  length,  where  at   my  feet 

the  sunlit  waters  broke 
On  glaring  reach    of   shining   beach,    and 

shingly  wall  of  rock  ; 
The  merchant-ships  lay  idly  there,  in  hard 

clear  lines  on  high, 
Tracing  with  rope  and  slender  spar  their 

network  on  the  sky. 

And  there  were  ancient  citizens,  cloak- 
wrapped  and  grave  and  cold, 

And  grim  and  stout  sea-captains  with 
faces  bronzed  and  old, 

And  on  his  horse,  with  Rawson,  his  cruel 
clerk  at  hand, 

Sat  dark  and  haughty  Endicott,  the  ruler 
of  the  land. 

And  poisoning  with  his  evil  words  the 
ruler's  ready  ear, 

The  priest  leaned  o'er  his  saddle,  with 
laugh  and  scoff  and  jeer  ; 

It  stirred  my  soul,  and  from  my  lips  the 
seal  of  silence  broke, 

As  if  through  woman's  weakness  a  warn 
ing  spirit  spoke. 

I    cried,    "  The    Lord   rebuke   thee,  thou 

smiter  of  the  meek, 
Thou  robber  of  the  righteous,  thou  trampler 

of  the  weak  ! 
Go  light  the  dark,  cold  hearth-stones,  —  go 

turn  the  prison  lock 


Of  the  poor  hearts  thou  hast  hunted,  thou 
wolf  amid  the  flock  !  " 

Dark  lowered  the  brows  of  Endicott,  and 

with  a  deeper  red 
O'er  Rawson's  wine- empurpled  cheek  the 

flush  of  anger  spread  ; 
"Good    people,"   quoth    the   white-lipped 

priest,  "  heed  not  her  words  so  wild, 
Her  Master  speaks  within  her,  —  the  Devil 

owns  his  child  !  " 

But   gray  heads  shook,  and  young   brows 

knit,  the  while  the  sheriff  read 
That  law  the  wicked  rulers  against  the  poor 

have  made, 
Who  to  their  house  of  Rimmon  and  idol 

priesthood  bring 
No   bended   knee  of  worship,  nor  gainful 

offering. 

Then  to  the  stout  sea-captains  the  sheriff, 
turning,  said,  — 

"  Which  of  ye,  worthy  seamen,  will  take 
this  Quaker  maid  ? 

In  the  Isle  of  fair  Barbadoes,  or  on  Vir 
ginia's  shore, 

You  may  hold  her  at  a  higher  price  than 
Indian  girl  or  Moor." 

Grim  and  silent  stood    the  captains  ;   and 

when  again  he  cried, 
"  Speak  out,  my  worthy   seamen  !  "  —  no 

voice,  no  sign  replied  ; 
But  I  felt  a  hard  hand  press  my  own,  and 

kind  words  met  my  ear,  — 
"God  bless  thee,  and   preserve  thee,  my 

gentle  girl  and  dear  !  " 

A  weight  seemed  lifted  from  my  heart,  a 

pitying  friend  was  nigh,  — 
I  felt  it  in  his  hard,  rough  hand,  and  saw  it 

in  his  eye  ; 
And  when   again   the   sheriff   spoke,  that 

voice,  so  kind  to  me, 
Growled  back  its  stormy  answer  like  the 

roaring  of  the  sea,  — 

"  Pile  my  ship  with   bars  of   silver,  pack 

with  coins  of  Spanish  gold, 
From    keel-piece    up   to    deck-plank,   the 

roomage  of  her  hold, 
By   the   living   God    who   made   me !  —  I 

would  sooner  in  your  bay 
Sink  ship  and  crew  and  cargo,  than  bear 

this  child  away  1  " 


THE  NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD 


21 


"  Well  answered,  worthy  captain,  shame  on 

their  cruel  laws  !  " 
Ran  through   the  crowd  in  murmurs  loud 

the  people's  just  applause. 
"  Like  the  herdsman  of  Tekoa,  in  Israel  of 

old, 
Shall  we  see  the  poor  and  righteous  again 

for  silver  sold  ?" 

I  looked  on  haughty  Endicott  ;  with  wea 
pon  half-way  drawn, 

Swept  round  the  throng  his  lion  glare  of 
bitter  hate  and  scorn  ; 

Fiercely  he  drew  his  bridle-rein,  and  turned 
in  silence  back, 

And  sneering  priest  and  baffled  clerk  rode 
murmuring  in  his  track. 

Hard  after  them  the  sheriff  looked,  in  bit 
terness  of  soul  ; 

Thrice  smote  his  staff  upon  the  ground, 
and  crushed  his  parchment  roll. 

"  Good  friends,"  he  said,  "  since  both  have 
fled,  the  ruler  and  the  priest, 

Judge  ye,  if  from  their  further  work  I  be 
not  well  released." 

Loud  was  the  cheer  which,  full  and  clear, 
swept  round  the  silent  bay, 

As,  with  kind  words  and  kinder  looks,  he 
bade  me  go  my  way  ; 

For  He  who  turns  the  courses  of  the  stream 
let  of  the  glen, 

And  the  river  of  great  waters,  had  turned 
the  hearts  of  men. 

Oh,  at  that  hour    the  very  earth  seemed 

changed  beneath  my  eye, 
A  holier  wonder  round  me   rose  the  blue 

walls  of  the  sky, 
A  lovelier  light  on  rock  and  hill  and  stream 

and  woodland  lay, 
And  softer  lapsed    on  sunnier   sands   the 

waters  of  the  bay. 

Thanksgiving  to  the  Lord  of  life  !  to  Him 

all  praises  be, 
Who  from  the  hands  of  evil  men  hath  set 

his  handmaid  free  ; 
All  praise  to  Him  before  whose  power  the 

mighty  are  afraid, 
'Who  takes  the  crafty  in  the  snare  which 

for  the  poor  is  laid  ! 

Sing,  O  my  soul,  rejoicingly,  on  evening's 
twilight  calm 


Uplift  the  loud    thanksgiving,  pour   forth 

the  grateful  psalm  ; 
Let  all  dear  hearts  with  me  rejoice,  as  did 

the  saints  of  old, 
When  of  the  Lord's  good  angel  the  rescued 

Peter  told. 

And  weep  and   howl,  ye  evil  priests  and 

mighty  men  of  wrong, 
The  Lord  shall  smite  the  proud,  and  lay 

His  hand  upon  the  strong. 
Woe  to  the  wicked  rulers  in  His  avenging 

hour  ! 
Woe  to  the  wolves  who  seek  the  flocks  to 

raven  and  devour  ! 

But  let  the  humble  ones  arise,  the  poor  in 

heart  be  glad, 
And   let   the    mourning   ones    again   with 

robes  of  praise  be  clad. 
For    He    who    cooled    the    furnace,    and 

smoothed  the  stormy  wave, 
And  tamed  the  Chaldean  lions,  is  mighty 

still  to  save  ! 


THE    NEW  WIFE  AND  THE  OLD 

The  following1  ballad  is  founded  upon  one  of 
the  marvellous  leg-ends  connected  with  the  fa 
mous  General  M ,  of  Hampton,  New  Hamp 
shire,  who  was  regarded  by  his  neighbors  as  a 
Yankee  Faust,  in  league  with  the  adversary. 
I  give  the  story,  as  I  heard  it  when  a  child, 
from  a  venerable  family  visitant. 

DARK  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast, 
Gone  the  bridemaids,  gone  the  priest. 
All  is  over,  all  is  done, 
Twain  of  yesterday  are  one  ! 
Blooming  girl  and  manhood  gray, 
Autumn  in  the  arms  of  May  ! 

Hushed  within  and  hushed  without, 
Dancing  feet  and  wrestlers'  shout  ; 
Dies  the  bonfire  on  the  hill  ; 
All  is  dark  and  all  is  still, 
Save  the  starlight,  save  the  breeze 
Moaning  through  the  graveyard  trees  ; 
And  the  great  sea-waves  below, 
Pulse  of  the  midnight  beating  slow. 

From  the  brief  dream  of  a  bride 
She  hath  wakened,  at  his  side. 
With  half -Tittered  shriek  and  start,  — 
Feels  she  not  his  beating  heart  ? 


22 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


And  the  pressure  of  his  arm, 

And  his  breathing  near  and  warm  ? 

Lightly  from  the  bridal  bed 
Springs  that  fair  dishevelled  head, 
And  a  feeling,  new,  intense, 
Half  of  shame,  half  innocence, 
Maiden  fear  and  wonder  speaks 
Through  her  lips  and  changing  cheeks. 

From  the  oaken  mantel  glowing, 
Faintest  light  the  lamp  is  throwing 
On  the  mirror's  antique  mould, 
High-backed  chair,  and  wainscot  old, 
And,  through  faded  curtains  stealing, 
His  dark  sleeping  face  revealing. 

Listless  lies  the  strong  man  there, 
Silver-streaked  his  careless  hair  ; 
Lips  of  love  have  left  no  trace 
On  that  hard  and  haughty  face  ; 
And  that  forehead's  knitted  thought 
Love's  soft  hand  hath  not  un wrought. 

"  Yet,"  she  sighs,  "  he  loves  me  well, 
More  than  these  calm  lips  will  tell. 
Stooping  to  my  lowly  state, 
He  hath  made  me  rich  and  great, 
And  I  uless  him,  though  he  be 
Hard  and  stern  to  all  save  me  ! " 

While  she  speaketh,  falls  the  light 
O'er  her  fingers  small  and  white  ; 
Gold  and  gem,  and  costly  ring 
Back  the  timid  lustre  fling,  — 
Love's  selectest  gifts,  and  rare, 
His  proud  hand  had  fastened  there. 

Gratefully  she  marks  the  glow 
From  those  tapering  lines  of  snow  ; 
Fondly  o'er  the  sleeper  bending, 
His  black  hair  with  golden  blending, 
In  her  soft  and  light  caress, 
Cheek  and  lip  together  press. 

Ha  !  —  that  start  of  horror  !   why 
That  wild  stare  and  wilder  cry, 
Full  of  terror,  full  of  pain  ? 
Is  there  madness  in  her  brain  ? 
Hark  !   that  gasping,  hoarse  and  low, 
"  Spare  me,  —  spare  me,  —  let  me  go  !  " 

God  have  mercy  !  —  icy  cold 
Spectral  hands  her  own  enfold, 
Drawing  silently  from  them 


Love's  fair  gifts  of  gold  and  gem. 
"  Waken  !    save  me  !  "  still  as  death 
At  her  side  he  slumbereth. 

Ring  and  bracelet  all  are  gone, 
And  that  ice-cold  hand  withdrawn; 
But  she  hears  a  murmur  low, 
Full  of  sweetness,  full  of  woe, 
Half  a  sigh  and  half  a  moan  : 
"  Fear  not  !  give  the  dead  her  own  !  " 

Ah  !  —  the  dead  wife's  voice  she  knows  ! 

That  cold  hand  whose  pressure  froze, 

Once  in  warmest  life  had  borne 

Gem  and  band  her  own  hath  worn. 

"  Wake  thee  !   wake  thee  !  "     Lo,  his  eyes 

Open  with  a  dull  surprise. 

In  his  arms  the  strong  man  folds  her, 
Closer  to  his  breast  he  holds  her  ; 
Trembling  limbs  his  own  are  meeting, 
And  he  feels  her  heart's  quick  beating : 
"  Nay,  my  dearest,  why  this  fear  ?  " 
"  Hush  !  "  she  saith,  "  the  dead  is  here  ! r' 

"  Nay,  a  dream,  —  an  idle  dream." 
But  before  the  lamp's  pale  gleam 
Tremblingly  her  hand  she  raises. 
There  no  more  the  diamond  blazes, 
Clasp  of  pearl,  or  ring  of  gold,  — 
"  Ah  !  "  she  sighs,  "  her  hand  was  cold  !  " 

Broken  words  of  cheer  he  saith, 

But  his  dark  lip  quivereth, 

And  as  o'er  the  past  he  thinketh, 

From  his  young  wife's  arms  he  shrinketh ; 

Can  those  soft  arms  round  him  lie, 

Underneath  his  dead  wife's  eye  ? 

She  her  fair  young  head  can  rest 

Soothed  and  childlike  on  his  breast, 

And  in  trustful  innocence 

Draw  new  strength  and  courage  thence  5 

He,  the  proud  man,  feels  within 

But  the  cowardice  of  sin  ! 

She  can  murmur  in  her  thought 
Simple  prayers  her  mother  taught, 
And  His  blessed  angels  call, 
Whose  great  love  is  over  all  ; 
He,  alone,  in  prayerless  pride, 
Meets  the  dark  Past  at  her  side  ! 

One,  who  living  shrank  with  dread 
From  his  look,  or  word,  or  tread, 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK 


Unto  whom  her  early  grave 
Was  as  freedom  to  the  slave, 
Moves  him  at  this  midnight  hour, 
With  the  dead's  unconscious  power  ! 

Ah,  the  dead,  the  unforgot  ! 

From  their  solemn  homes  of  thought, 

Where  the  cypress  shadows  blend 

Darkly  over  foe  and  friend, 

Or  in  love  or  sad  rebuke, 

Back  upon  the  living  look. 

And  the  tenderest  ones  and  weakest, 
Who  their  wrongs  have  borne  the  meekest, 
Lifting  from  those  dark,  still  places, 
Sweet  and  sad-remembered  faces, 
O'er  the  guilty  hearts  behind 
An  unwitting  triumph  find. 


THE    BRIDAL    OF    PENNACOOK 

Winnepurkit,  otherwise  called  George,  Sa 
chem  of  SaiigTis,  married  a  daughter  of  Passa- 
conaway,  the  great  Pennacook  chieftain,  in 
1662.  The  wedding-  took  place  at  Pennacook 
(now  Concord,  N.  H.),  and  the  ceremonies  closed 
with  a  great  feast.  According  to  the  usages  of 
the  chiefs,  Passaconaway  ordered  a  select  num 
ber  of  his  men  to  accompany  the  newly  mar 
ried  couple  to  the  dwelling-  of  the  husband, 
where  in  turn  there  was  another  great  feast. 
Some  time  after,  the  wife  of  Winnepurkit  ex 
pressing  a  desire  to  visit  her  father's  house 
was  permitted  to  go,  accompanied  by  a  brave 
escort  of  her  husband's  chief  men.  But  when 
she  wished  to  return,  her  father  sent  a  mes 
senger  to  Saugus,  informing  her  husband,  and 
asking  him  to  come  and  take  her  away.  He 
returned  for  answer  that  he  had  escorted  his 
wife  to  her  father's  house  in  a  style  that  be 
came  a  chief,  and  that  now  if  she  wished  to 
return,  her  father  must  send  her  back,  in  the 
same  way.  This  Passaconaway  refused  to  do, 
and  it  is  said  that  here  terminated  the  connec 
tion  of  his  daughter  with  the  Saugus  chief.  — 
Vide  MOKTON'S  New  Canaan. 

WE  had  been  wandering  for  many  days 
Through  the  rough  northern  country.     We 

had  seen 

The  sunset,  with  its  bars  of  purple  cloud, 
Like  a  new  heaven,  shine  upward  from  the 

lake 

Of  Winnepiseogee  ;  and  had  felt 
The  sunrise  breezes,  midst  the  leafy  isles 
Which  stoop  their  summer  beauty  to  the  lips 


Of  the  bright  waters.    We  had  checked  our 

steeds, 
Silent  with  wonder,  where    the   mountain 

wall 
Is  piled  to  heaven  ;  and,  through  the  narrow 

rift 

Of  the  vast  rocks,  against  whose  rugged  feet 
Beats  the  mad  torrent  with  perpetual  roar, 
Where  noonday  is  as  twilight,  and  the 

wind 

Comes  burdened  with  the  everlasting  moan 
Of  forests  and  of  far-off  waterfalls, 
We  had  looked  upward  where  the  summer 

sky, 
Tasselled  with  clouds  light-woven  by  the 

sun, 
Sprung   its    blue  arch  above  the  abutting 

crags 

O'er-roofing  the  vast  portal  of  the  land 
Beyond  the  wall   of  mountains.     We  had 

passed 

The  high  source  of  the  Saco  ;  and  bewil 
dered 
In  the  dwarf  spruce-belts  of  the  Crystal 

Hills, 
Had  heard  above  us,  like  a  voice  in  the 

cloud, 

The  horn  of  Fabyan  sounding  ;  and  atop 
Of  old  Agioochook  had  seen  the  mountains 
Piled    to    the    northward,    shagged    with 

wood,  and  thick 
As  meadow  mole-hills,  —  the    far   sea   of 

Casco, 

A  white  gleam  on  the  horizon  of  the  east  ; 
Fair  lakes,  embosomed  in  the  woods  and 

hills  ; 
Moosehillock's  mountain  range,  and  Kear- 

sarge 
Lifting  his  granite  forehead  to  the  sun  ! 

And  we  had  rested  underneath  the  oaks 
Shadowing  the  bank,  whose   grassy  spires 

are  shaken 

By  the  perpetual  beating  of  the  falls 
Of  the  wild  Ammonoosuc.  We  had  tracked 
The  winding  Pemigewasset,  overhung 
By  beechen   shadows,  whitening  down  its 

rocks, 

Or  lazily  gliding  through  its  intervals, 
From    waving   rye-fields    sending    up   the 

gleam 

Of  sunlit  waters.     We  had  seen  the  moon 
Rising  behind  Umbagog's  eastern  pines, 
Like   a   great   Indian   camp-fire  ;    and  its 

beams 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


At    midnight   spanning  with   a   bridge    of 

silver 
The  Merrimac  by  Uncanoonuc's  falls. 

There  were  five  souls  of  us  whom  travel's 

chance 
Had  thrown  together  in  these  wild  north 

hills  : 

A  city  lawyer,  for  a  month  escaping 
From  his  dull  office,  where  the  weary  eye 
Saw  only  hot  brick  walls  and  close  thronged 

streets ; 

Briefless  as  yet,  but  with  an  eye  to  see 
Life's  sunniest  side,  and  with  a  heart    to 

take 

Its  chances  all  as  godsends  ;  and  his  brother, 
Pale  from  long  pulpit  studies,  yet  retaining 
The  warmth  and  freshness  of  a  genial  heart, 
Whose  mirror  of  the  beautiful  and  true, 
In  Man  and  Nature,  was  as  yet  undirnmed 
By  dust  of  theologic  strife,  or  breath 
Of  sect,  or  cobwebs  of  scholastic  lore  ; 
Like  a  clear  crystal  calm  of  water,  taking 
The  hue  and  image  of  o'erleaning  flowers, 
Sweet  human  faces,  white    clouds  of   the 

noon, 
Slant  starlight  glimpses  through  the  dewy 

leaves, 
And  tenderest  moonrise.     'T  was,  in  truth, 

a  study, 

To  mark  his  spirit,  alternating  between 
A  decent  and  professional  gravity 
And  an  irreverent  mirthfulness,  which  often 
Laughed  in  the  face  of  his  divinity, 
Plucked   off   the    sacred  ephod,  quite  un- 

shrined 

The  oracle,  and  for  the  pattern  priest 
Left   us    the   man.      A   shrewd,  sagacious 

merchant, 

To  whom  the  soiled  sheet  found  in  Craw 
ford's  inn, 

Giving  the  latest  news  of  city  stocks 
And  sales  of  cotton,  had  a  deeper  meaning 
Than   the    great    presence    of    the    awful 

mountains 

Glorified  by  the  sunset  ;  and  his  daughter, 
A  delicate  flower  on  whom  had  blown  too 

long 
Those   evil   winds,  which,    sweeping   from 

the  ice 

And  winnowing  the  fogs  of  Labrador, 
Shed  their  oold  blight  round  Massachusetts 

Bay, 
With  the  same  breath  which  stirs  Spring's 

opening  leaves 


And  lifts  her  half-formed  flower-bell  on  its 

stem, 
Poisoning  our  seaside  atmosphere. 

It  chanced 
That   as  we   turned   upon   our   homeward 

way, 
A  drear  northeastern  storm  came  howling 

up 

The  valley  of  the  Saco  ;  and  that  girl 
Who  had  stood  with  us  upon  Mount  Wash 
ington, 
Her  brown  locks  ruffled  by  the  wind  which 

whirled 

In  gusts  around  its  sharp,  cold  pinnacle, 
Who  had  joined  our  gay  trout-fishing  in  the 

streams 
Which  lave  that  giant's  feet  ;  whose  laugh 

was  heard 

Like  a  bird's  carol  on  the  sunrise  breeze 
Which  swelled  our  sail  amidst  the  lake's 

green  islands, 
Shrank  from  its  harsh,  chill  breath,  and 

visibly  drooped 
Like    a   flower  in  the    frost.     So,  in   that 

quiet  inn 

Which  looks  from  Con  way  on  the  moun 
tains  piled 

Heavily  against  the  horizon  of  the  north, 
Like  summer  thunder-clouds,  we  made  our 

home  : 
And  while    the    mist    hung  over  dripping 

hills, 
And  the    cold  wind-driven   rain-drops   all 

day  long 

Beat  their  sad  music  upon  roof  and  pane, 
We  strove  to  cheer  our  gentle  invalid. 

The  lawyer  in  the  pauses  of  the  storm 
Went  angling  down  the  Saco,  and,  returning, 
Recounted  his  adventures  and  mishaps  ; 
Gave  us  the  history  of  his  scaly  clients, 
Mingling  with  ludicrous  yet  apt  citations 
Of  barbarous  law  Latin,  passages 
From   Izaak  Walton's  Angler,  sweet  and 

fresh 

As  the  flower-skirted  streams  of  Stafford 
shire, 
Where,  under   aged    trees,  the    southwest 

wind 
Of  soft  June  mornings   fanned   the   thin, 

white  hair 

Of  the  sage  fisher.     And,  if  truth  be  told, 
Our  youthful  candidate   forsook   his   ser 
mons, 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK 


25 


His  commentaries,  articles  and  creeds, 
For  the  fair  page  of  human  loveliness, 
The  missal  of  young  hearts,  whose  sacred 

text 

Is  music,  its  illumining,  sweet  smiles. 
He  sang  the  songs  she  loved  ;  and  in  his 

low, 

Deep,  earnest  voice,  recited  many  a  page 
Of  poetry,  the  holiest,  tenderest  lines 
Of  the  sad  bard  of  Olney,  the  sweet  songs, 
Simple  and  beautiful  as  Truth  and  Nature, 
Of   him  whose  whitened    locks  on   Rydal 

Mount 

Are  lifted  yet  by  morning  breezes  blowing 
From  the  green  hills,  immortal  in  his  lays. 
And  for  myself,  obedient  to  her  wish, 
I  searched  our  landlord's  proffered  library  : 
A   well-thumbed    Buiiyan,    with    its    nice 

wood  pictures 

Of  scaly  fiends  and  angels  not  unlike  them  ; 
Watts'  unmelodious  psalms  ;  Astrology's 
Last  home,  a  musty  pile  of  almanacs, 
And  an  old  chronicle  of  border  wars 
And  Indian  history.     And,  as  I  read 
A  story  of  the  marriage  of  the  Chief 
Of  Saugus  to  the  dusky  Weetamoo, 
Daughter  of  Passaconaway,  who  dwelt 
In  the  old  time  upon  the  Merrimac, 
Our  fair  one,  in  the  playful  exercise 
Of  her  prerogative,  —  the  right  divine 
Of  youth  and  beauty,  —  bade  us  versify 
The  legend,  and  with  ready  pencil  sketched 
Its  plan  and  outlines,  laughingly  assigning 
To  each  his  part,  and  barring  our  excuses 
With  absolute  will.      So,  like  the  cavaliers 
Whose  voices  still  are  heard  in  the  Romance 
Of  silver-tongued  Boccaccio,  on  the  banks 
Of  Arno,  with  soft  tales  of  love  beguiling 
The  ear  of  languid  beauty,  plague-exiled 
From  stately   Florence,  we   rehearsed  our 

rhymes 

To  their  fair  auditor,  and  shared  by  turns 
Her  kind  approval  and   her   playful  cen- 


It  may  be  that  these  fragments  owe  alone 
To     the     fair    setting    of    their    circum 
stances,  — 

The  associations  of  time,  scene,  and  audi 
ence,  — 

Their  place  amid  the  pictures  which  fill  up 
The  chambers  of  my  memory.  Yet  I  tnist 
That  some,  who  sigh,  while  wandering  in 

thought, 
Pilgrims  of  Romance  o'er  the  olden  world, 


That  our  broad  land,  —  our  sea-like  lakes 

and  mountains 

Piled  to  the  clouds,  our  rivers  overhung 
By   forests  which   have    known    no   other 

change 

For  ages  than  the  budding  and  the  fall 
Of  leaves,  our  valleys  lovelier  than  those 
Which  the  old  poets  sang  of,  —  should  but 

figure 

On  the  apocryphal  chart  of  speculation 
As  pastures,  wood-lots,  mill-sites,  with  the 

privileges, 

Rights,  and  appurtenances,  which  make  up 
A  Yankee  Paradise,  unsung,  unknown, 
To  beautiful  tradition  ;  even  their  names, 
Whose  melody  yet  lingers  like  the  last 
Vibration  of  the  red  man's  requiem, 
Exchanged  for  syllables  significant, 
Of  cotton-mill  and  rail-car,  will  look  kindh 
Upon  this  effort  to  call  up  the  ghost 
Of  our  dim  Past,  and  listen  with  pleased  ear 
To  the  responses  of  the  questioned  Shade. 


I.    THE   MERRIMAC 

O    child   of   that   white-crested   mountain 

whose  springs 
Gush  forth  in  the  shade  of  the  cliff-eagle's 

wings, 
Down    whose    slopes  to  the  lowlands  thy 

wild  waters  shine, 
Leaping    gray    walls     of    rock,     flashing 

through  the  dwarf  pine  ; 

From  that  cloud-curtained  cradle  so  cold 

and  so  lone, 
From  the  arms  of  that  wintry-locked  mother 

of  stone, 
By  hills  hung  with  forests,  through  vales 

wide  and  free, 
Thy     mountain  -  born    brightness    glanced 

down  to  the  sea  ! 

No  bridge    arched   thy   waters   save   that 

where  the  trees 
Stretched  their  long  arms  above  thee  and 

kissed  in  the  breeze  : 
No  sound  save  the  lapse  of  the  waves  on 

thy  shores, 
The  plunging  of  otters,  the  light  dip  of  oars. 

Green-tufted,  oak-shaded,  by  Amoskeag's 

fall 
Thy  twin  Uncanoonucs  rose  stately  and  tall, 


26 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Thy  Nashua  meadows  lay  green  and  un 
shorn, 

And  the  hills  of  Pentucket  were  tasselled 
with  corn. 

But  thy  Pennacook  valley  was  fairer  than 

these, 

And  greener  its  grasses  and  taller  its  trees, 
Ere  the  sound  of  an  axe  in  the  forest  had 

rung, 
Or  the  mower  his  scythe  in  the  meadows 

had  swung. 

In  their  sheltered  repose  looking  out  from 
the  wood 

The  bark-builded  wigwams  of  Pennacook 
stood  ; 

There  glided  the  corn-dance,  the  council- 
fire  shone, 

And  against  the  red  war-post  the  hatchet 
was  thrown. 

There  the  old  smoked  in  silence  their  pipes, 

and  the  young 
To  the  pike  and  the  white-perch  their  baited 

lines  flung  ; 
There  the  boy  shaped  his  arrows,  and  there 

the  shy  maid 
Wove  her  many-hued  baskets   and  bright 

wampum  braid. 

O  Stream  of  the  Mountains  !  if  answer  of 

thine 
Could  rise  from  thy  waters  to  question  of 

mine, 
Methinks  through  the  din  of  thy  thronged 

banks  a  moan 
Of  sorrow  would  swell  for  the  days  which 

have  gone. 

Not  for  thee  the  dull  jar  of  the  loom  and 

the  wheel, 
The   gliding   of   shuttles,    the    ringing   of 

steel  ; 
But  that  old  voice  of  waters,  of  bird  and  of 

breeze, 
The  dip  of  the  wild-fowl,  the  rustling  of 

trees  ! 


II.    THE   BASHABA 

Lift  we  the  twilight  curtains  of  the  Past, 
And,  turning   from   familiar   sight   and 
sound, 


Sadly  and  full  of  reverence  let  us  cast 
A    glance     upon     Tradition's    shadowy 

ground, 

Led  by  the  few  pale  lights  which,  glimmer 
ing  round 
That   dim,  strange    land    of   Eld,    seem 

dying  fast  ; 

And  that  which  history  gives  not  to  the  eye, 
The  faded  coloring  of  Time's  tapestry, 
Let  Fancy,  with  her  dream-dipped  brush, 
supply. 

Roof  of  bark  and  walls  of  pine, 
Through    whose    chinks    the    sunbeams 

shine, 
Tracing  many  a  golden  line 

On  the  ample  floor  within  ; 
Where,  upon  that  earth-floor  stark, 
Lay  the  gaudy  mats  of  bark, 
With  the  bear's  hide,  rough  and  dark, 

And  the  red-deer's  skill. 

Window-tracery,  small  and  slight, 
Woven  of  the  willow  white, 
Lent  a  dimly  checkered  light  ; 

And  the  night-stars  glimmered  down, 
Where  the  lodge-fire's  heavy  smoke, 
Slowly  through  an  opening  broke, 
In  the  low  roof,  ribbed  with  oak, 

Sheathed  with  hemlock  brown. 

Gloomed  behind  the  changeless  shade 
By  the  solemn  pine-wood  made  ; 
'  Through  the  rugged  palisade, 

In  the  open  foreground  planted, 
Glimpses  came  of  rowers  rowing, 
Stir  of  leaves  and  wild-flowers  blowing. 
Steel-like  gleams  of  water  flowing, 

In  the  sunlight  slanted. 

Here  the  mighty  Bashaba 

Held  his  long-unquestioned  sway, 

From  the  White  Hills,  far  away, 

To  the  great  sea's  sounding  shore  ; 
Chief  of  chiefs,  his  regal  word 
All  the  river  Sachems  heard, 
At  his  call  the  war-dance  stirred, 

Or  was  still  once  more. 

There  his  spoils  of  chase  and  war, 
Jaw  of  wolf  and  black  bear's  paw, 
Panther's  skin  and  eagle's  claw, 
Lay  beside  his  axe  and  bow  ; 
And,  adown  the  roof-pole  hung, 
Loosely  on  a  snake-skin  strung, 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK 


27 


In  the  smoke  his  scalp-locks  swung 
Grimly  to  and  fro. 

Nightly  down  the  river  going, 
Swifter  was  the  hunter's  rowing, 
When  he  saw  that  lodge-fire  glowing 

O'er  the  waters  still  and  red  ; 
And  the  squaw's  dark  eye  burned  brighter, 
And  she  drew  her  blanket  tighter, 
As,  with  quicker  step  and  lighter, 

From  that  door  she  fled. 

For  that  chief  had  magic  skill, 
And  a  Panisee's  dark  will, 
Over  powers  of  good  and  ill, 

Powers  which  bless  and  powers  which 

ban  ; 

Wizard  lord  of  Pennacook, 
Chiefs  upon  their  war-path  shook, 
When  they  met  the  steady  look 

Of  that  wise  dark  man. 

Tales  of  him  the  gray  squaw  told, 
When  the  winter  night-wind  cold 
Pierced  her  blanket's  thickest  fold, 

And  her  fire  burned  low  and  small, 
Till  the  very  child  abed, 
Drew  its  bear-skin  over  head, 
Shrinking  from  the  pale  lights  shed 

On  the  trembling  wall. 

All  the  subtle  spirits  hiding 
Under  earth  or  wave,  abiding 
In  the  caverned  rock,  or  riding 

Misty  clouds  or  morning  breeze  ; 
Every  dark  intelligence, 
Secret  soul,  and  influence 
Of  all  things  which  outward  sense 

Feels,  or  hears,  or  sees,  — 

These  the  wizard's  skill  confessed, 
At  his  bidding  banned  or  blessed, 
Stormf  til  woke  or  lulled  to  rest 

Wind  and  cloud,  and  fire  and  flood  ; 
Burned  for  him  the  drifted  snow, 
Bade  through  ice  fresh  lilies  blow, 
And  the  leaves  of  summer  grow 

Over  winter's  wood ! 

Not  untrue  that  tale  of  old  ! 
Now,  as  then,  the  wise  and  bold 
All  the  powers  of  Nature  hold 
Subject  to  their  kingly  will  ; 
From  the  wondering  crowds  ashore, 
Treading  life's  wild  waters  o'er, 


As  upon  a  marble  floor, 

Moves  the  strong  man  still. 

Still,  to  such,  life's  elements 
With  their  sterner  laws  dispense, 
And  the  chain  of  consequence 

Broken  in  their  pathway  lies  ; 
Time  and  change  their  vassals  making, 
Flowers  from  icy  pillows  waking, 
Tresses  of  the  sunrise  shaking 

Over  midnight  skies. 

Still,  to  th'  earnest  soul,  the  sun 
Rests  on  towered  Gibeon, 
And  the  rnoon  of  Ajalon 

Lights  the  battle-grounds  of  life  ; 
To  his  aid  the  strong  reverses 
Hidden  powers  and  giant  forces, 
And  the  high  stars,  in  their  courses, 

Mingle  in  his  strife  ! 


III.   THE   DAUGHTER 

The  soot-black  brows  of  men,  the  yell 
Of  women  thronging  round  the  bed, 
The  tinkling  charm  of  ring  and  shell, 

The  Powah  whispering  o'er  the  dead  ! 
All  these  the  Sachem's  home  had  known, 

When,  on  her  journey  long  and  wild 
To  the  dim  World  of  Souls,  alone, 
In  her  young  beauty  passed  the  mother  of 
his  child. 

Three     bow-shots    from    the    Sachem's 

dwelling 

They  laid  her  in  the  walnut  shade, 
Where  a  green  hillock  gently  swelling 

Her  fitting  mound  of  burial  made. 
There  trailed  the  vine  in  summer  hours, 
The  tree-perched  squirrel  dropped  his 

shell,  — 

On  velvet  moss  and  pale-hued  flowers, 
Woven  with  leaf  and  spray,  the  softened 
sunshine  fell  ! 

The  Indian's  heart  is  hard  and  cold, 

It  closes  darkly  o'er  its  care, 
And  formed  in  Nature's  sternest  mould^ 

Is  slow  to  feel,  and  strong  to  bear. 
The  war-paint  on  the  Sachem's  face, 

Unwet  with  tears,  shone  fierce  and  red, 
And  still,  in  battle  or  in  chase, 
Dry  leaf  and  snow-rime  crisped  beneath  his 
foremost  tread. 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Yet  when  her  name  was  heard  no  more, 
And  when  the  robe  her  mother  gave, 
And  small,  light  moccasin  she  wore, 
Had  slowly  wasted  on  her  grave, 
Unmarked  of  him  the  dark  maids  sped 

Their  sunset  dance  and  moonlit  play  ; 
No  other  shared  his  lonely  bed, 
No  other  fair  young  head  upon  his  bosom 
lay. 

A  lone,  stern  man.     Yet,  as  sometimes 

The  tempest-smitten  tree  receives 
From  one  small  root  the  sap  which  climbs 
Its  topmost  spray  and  crowning  leaves, 
So  from  his  child  the  Sachem  drew 
A  life  of  Love  and  Hope,  and  felt 
His  cold  and  rugged  nature  through 
T7ie  softness  and  the  warmth  of  her  young- 
being  melt. 

A  laugh  which  in  the  woodland  rang 

Bemocking  April's  gladdest  bird,  — 
A  light  and  graceful  form  which  sprang 
To    meet    him    when    his    step    was 

heard, — 
Eyes  by  his  lodge-fire  flashing  dark, 

Small  fingers  stringing  bead  and  shell 
Or  weaving  mats  of  bright-hued  bark,  — 
With  these  the  household-god  had  graced 
his  wigwam  well. 

Child  of  the  forest !  strong  and  free, 

Slight-robed,  with  loosely  flowing  hair, 
She  swam  the  lake  or  climbed  the  tree, 

Or  struck  the  flying  bird  in  air. 
O'er  the  heaped  drifts  of  winter's  moon 
Her  snow-shoes  tracked  the    hunter's 

way  ; 

And  dazzling  in  the  summer  noon 
The   blade  of  her  light  oar   threw  off  its 
shower  of  spray  ! 

Unknown  to  her  the  rigid  rule, 

The  dull  restraint,  the  chiding  frown, 
The  weary  torture  of  the  school, 

The  taming  of  wild  nature  down. 
Her  only  lore,  the  legends  told 

Around  the  hunter's  fire  at  night  ; 
Stars  rose  and  set,  and  seasons  rolled, 
Flowers  bloomed  and  snow-flakes  fell,  un 
questioned  in  her  sight. 

Unknown  to  her  the  subtle  skill 

With  which  the  artist-eye  can  trace 
In  rock  and  tree  and  lake  and  hill 


The  outlines  of  divinest  grace  ; 
Unknown  the  fine  soul's  keen  unrest, 

Which  sees,  admires,  yet  yearns  alway 
Too  closely  on  her  mother's  breast 
To  note  her  smiles  of  love  the  child  of  Na* 
ture  lay  ! 

It  is  enough  for  such  to  be 

Of  common,  natural  things  a  part, 
To  feel,  with  bird  and  stream  and  tree, 
The  pulses  of  the  same  great  heart ; 
But  we,  from  Nature  long  exiled, 

In  our  cold  homes  of  Art  and  Thought 
Grieve  like  the  stranger-tended  child, 
Which  seeks  its  mother's  arms,  and  sees 
but  feels  them  not. 

The  garden  rose  may  richly  bloom 

In  cultured  soil  and  genial  air, 
To  cloud  the  light  of  Fashion's  room 

Or  droop  in  Beauty's  midnight  hair  ; 
In  lonelier  grace,  to  sun  and  dew 

The  sweetbrier  on  the  hillside  shovs 
Its  single  leaf  and  fainter  hue, 
Untrained  and  wildly  free,  yet  still  a  mister 
rose  ! 

Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo 

Their  mingling  shades  of  joy  and  ill 
The  instincts  of  her  nature  threw  ; 

The  savage  was  a  woman  still. 
Midst  outlines  dim  of  maiden  schemes, 

Heart-colored  prophecies  of  life, 
Rose  on  the  ground  of  her  young  dreams 
The  light  of  a  new  home,  the  lover  and  the 
wife. 


IV.    THE   WEDDING 

Cool  and  dark  fell  the  autumn  night, 

But    the    Bashaba's  wigwam    glowed  with 

light, 
For  down  from  its  roof,  by  green  withes 

hung, 
Flaring  and  smoking  the  pine-knots  swung 

And  along  the  river  great  wood-fires 
Shot  into  the  night  their  long,  red  spires, 
Showing  behind  the  tall,  dark  wood, 
Flashing  before  on  the  sweeping  flood. 

In  the  changeful  wind,  with  shimmer  and 

shade, 
Now  high,  now  low,  that  firelight  played, 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK 


29 


On  tree-leaves  wet  with  evening  dews, 
On  gliding  water  and  still  canoes. 

The  trapper  that  night  on  Turee's  brook, 
And  the  weary  fisher  on  Contoocook, 
Saw  over  the  marshes,  and  through  the  pine, 
And  down  on  the  river,  the  dance-lights 
shine. 

For  the  Sangus  Sachem  had  come  to  woo 
The  Bashaba's  daughter  Weetamoo, 
And  laid  at  her  father's  feet  that  night 
His  softest  furs  and  wampum  white. 

From  the  Crystal  Hills  to  the  far  southeast 
The  river  Sagamores  came  to  the  feast  ; 
And  chiefs  whose  homes  the  sea- winds  shook 
Sat  down  on  the  mats  of  Pennacook. 

They  came  from  Sunapee's  shore  of  rock, 
From  the  snowy  sources  of  Snooganock, 
And  from  rough  Coos  whose  thick  woods 

shake 
Their  pine-cones  in  Umbagog  Lake. 

From  Ammonoosuc's  mountain  pass, 
Wild  as  his  home,  came  Chepewass  ; 
And  the  Keenomps  of  the  hills  which  throw 
Their  shade  on  the  Smile  of  Manito. 

With  pipes  of  peace  and  bows  unstrung, 
Glowing  with  paint  came  old  and  young, 
In  wampum  and  furs  and  feathers  arrayed, 
To  the  dance  and  feast  the  Bashaba  made. 

Bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters  yield, 
On  dishes  of  birch  and  hemlock  piled, 
Garnished  and  graced  that  banquet  wild. 

Steaks  of  the  brown  bear  fat  and  large 
From  the  rocky  slopes  of  the  Kearsarge  ; 
Delicate  trout  from  Babboosuck  brook, 
And  salmon  speared  in  the  Contoocook  ; 

Squirrels  which  fed  where  nuts  fell  thick 
In  the  gravelly  bed  of  the  Otternic  ; 
And  small  wild-hens  in  reed-snares  caught 
From  the  banks  of  Sondagardee  brought  ; 

Pike  and  perch  from  the  Suncook  taken, 
Nuts  from  the  trees   of   the    Black   Hills 

shaken, 

Cranberries  picked  in  the  Squamscot  bog, 
And  grapes  from  the  vines  of  Piscataquog  : 


And,  drawn   from   that   great    stone  vase 

which  stands 

In  the  river  scooped  by  a  spirit's  hands, 
Garnished  with  spoons  of  shell  and  horn, 
Stood  the  birchen  dishes  of  smoking  corn. 

Thus  bird  of  the  air  and  beast  of  the  field, 
All  which  the  woods  and  the  waters  yield, 
Furnished  in  that  olden  day 
The  bridal  feast  of  the  Bashaba. 

And  merrily  when  that  feast  was  done 
On  the  fire-lit  green  the  dance  begun, 
With  squaws'  shrill  stave,  and  deeper  hum 
Of  old  men  beating  the  Indian  drum. 

Painted  and  plumed,  with  scalp-locks  flow 
ing, 

And  red  arms  tossing  and  black  eyes  glow 
ing, 

Now  in  the  light  and  now  in  the  shade 

Around  the  fires  the  dancers  played. 

The  step  was  quicker,  the  song  more  shrill, 
And  the  beat  of  the  small  drums  louder  still 
Whenever  within  the  circle  drew 
The  Saugus  Sachem  and  Weetamoo. 

The  moons  of  forty  winters  had  shed 
Their  snow  upon  that  chieftain's  head. 
And  toil  and  care  and  battle's  chance 
Had  seamed  his  hard,  dark  countenance. 

A  fawn  beside  the  bison  grim,  — 
Why  turns  the  bride's  fond  eye  on  him, 
In  whose  cold  look  is  naught  beside 
The  triumph  of  a  sullen  pride  ? 

Ask  why  the  graceful  grape  entwines 
The  rough  oak  with  her  arm  of  vines  ; 
And  why  the  gray  rock's  rugged  cheek 
The  soft  lips  of  the  mosses  seek  : 

Why,  with  wise  instinct,  Nature  seems 
To  harmonize  her  wide  extremes, 
Linking  the  stronger  with  the  weak, 
The  haughty  with  the  soft  and  meek  ( 


V.   THE   NEW    HOME 

A  wild  and  broken  landscape,  spiked  with 

firs, 
Roughening  the  bleak  horizon's  northern 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Steep,  cavernous  hillsides,  where  black  hem 
lock  spurs 

And  sharp,  gray  splinters  of   the  wind 
swept  ledge 

Pierced  the  thin-glazed  ice,  or  bristling  rose, 
Where  the  cold  rim  of  the  sky  sunk  down 
upon  the  snows. 

And  eastward  cold,  wide  marshes  stretched 

away, 

Dull,  dreary  flats  without  a  bush  or  tree, 
O'er-crossed  by  icy  creeks,  where  twice  a 

day 
Gurgled  the  waters  of  the  moon-struck 

sea  ; 
And  faint  with  distance  came  the  stifled 

roar, 
The  melancholy  lapse  of  waves  on  that  low 

shore. 

No    cheerful    village    with    its    mingling 

smokes, 
No  laugh  of  children  wrestling   in  the 

snow, 
No  camp-fire  blazing  through  the  hillside 

oaks, 

No  fishers  kneeling  on  the  ice  below  ; 
iTet  midst  all  desolate  things  of  sound  and 

view, 
Through    the    long   winter   moons    smiled 

dark-eyed  Weetamoo. 

Her  heart  had  found  a  home  ;  and  freshly 

all 

Its  beautiful  affections  overgrew 
Their  rugged  prop.     As  o'er  some  granite 

wall 
Soft  vine-leaves  open  to  the  moistening 

dew 
And  warm    bright   sun,  the   love   of   that 

young  wife 
Found  on  a  hard  cold  breast  the  dew  and 

warmth  of  life. 

The    steep,    bleak    hills,   the    melancholy 

shore, 

The  long,  dead  level  of  the  marsh  be 
tween, 

A  coloring  of  unreal  beauty  wore 

Through  the  soft  golden  mist  of  young 
love  seen. 

For  o'er  those  hills  and  from  that  dreary 
plain, 

Nightly  she  welcomed   home   her   hunter 
chief  again. 


No  warmth  of  heart,  no  passionate  burst  of 

feeling 

Repaid  her  welcoming  smile  and  parting 
kiss, 

No  fond  and   playful   dalliance  half   con 
cealing, 
Under  the  guise  of  mirth,  its  tenderness  ; 

But,  in  their  stead,  the  warrior's   settled 
pride, 

And  vanity's  pleased  smile   with  homage 
satisfied. 

Enough  for  Weetamoo,  that  she  alone 

Sat  on  his  mat  and  slumbered  at  his  side  ; 
That  he  whose  fame  to  her  young  ear  had 

flown 
Now   looked   upon   her   proudly   as   his 

bride  ; 
That  he  whose  name  the  Mohawk  trembling 

heard 
Vouchsafed  to  her  at  times  a  kindly  look 

or  word 

For  she  had  learned  the  maxims  of  her 

race, 

Which  teach  the  woman  to   become   a 
slave, 

And  feel  herself  the  pardonless  disgrace 
Of  love's  fond  weakness  in  the  wise  and 
brave,  — 

The    scandal    and   the    shame   which   they 
incur, 

Who   give    to  woman   all   which  man  re 
quires  of  her. 

So  passed  the  winter  moons.     The  sun  at 

last 
Broke  link  by  link  the  frost  chain  of  the 

rills, 
And  the  warm  breathings  of  the  southwest 

passed 

Over  the  hoar  rime  of  the  Sangus  hills  ; 
The  gray  and  desolate  marsh  grew  green 

once  more, 
And  the  birch-tree's  tremulous  shade  fell 

round  the  Sachem's  door. 

Then  from  far   Pennacook  swift   runners 

came, 
With  gift  and  greeting  for  the  Saugus 

chief  ; 
Beseeching   him    in   the    great    Sachem's 

name, 

That,  with  the  coming  of  the  flower  and 
leaf, 


THE   BRIDAL   OF   PENNACOOK 


fhe  song  of  birds,  the  warm,  breeze  and 

the  rain, 
Young  Weetaraoo  might  greet  her  lonely 

sire  again. 

And  Winuepurkit  called  his  chiefs  together, 

And  a  grave  council  in  his  wigwam  met, 

Solemn   and   brief   in   words,    considering 

whether 

The  rigid  rules  of  forest  etiquette 
Permitted  Weetamoo  once  more  to  look 
Upon  her  father's  face  and  green-banked 
Pennacook. 

With  interludes  of  pipe-smoke  and  strong 

water, 

The  forest  sages  pondered,  and  at  length 
Concluded  in  a  body  to  escort  her 

Up  to  her  father's  home   of  pride  and 

strength, 

Impressing  thus  on  Pennacook  a  sense 
Of  Wiunepurkit's  power  and  regal  conse 
quence. 

So  through  old  woods  which  Aukeetamit's 

hand 

A  soft  and  many-shaded  greenness  lent, 
Over  high  breezy  hills,  and  meadow  land 
Yellow  with  flowers,  the  wild  procession 

went, 

Till,  rolling  down  its  wooded  banks  between, 
A  broad,  clear,  mountain  stream,  the  Merri- 
mac  was  seen. 

The  hunter  leaning  on  his  bow  undrawn, 

The  fisher  lounging  on  the  pebbled  shores, 
Squaws  in  the  clearing  dropping  the  seed- 
corn, 
Young    children    peering    through    the 

wigwam  doors, 

Saw  with  delight,  surrounded  by  her  train 
Of  painted  Saugus  braves,  their  Weetamoo 
again. 


VI.    AT   PENNACOOK 

The  hills  are  dearest  which   our  childish 

feet 
Have  climbed  the  earliest  ;  and  the  streams 

most  sweet 
Are  ever   those  at  which   our  young  lips 

drank 
Stooped   to   their  waters   o'er   the  grassy 

bank. 


Midst  the  cold  dreary  sea-watch,  Home's 

hearth-light 
Shines     round     the    helmsman     plunging 

through  the  night  ; 
And  still,  with  inward  eye,  the  traveller 

sees 
In  close,  dark,  stranger  streets  his  native 

trees. 

The  home-sick  dreamer's  brow  is  nightly 

fanned 

By  breezes  whispering  of  his  native  land, 
And  on  the  stranger's  dim  and  dying  eye 
The  soft,  sweet  pictures  of  his  childhood 

lie. 

Joy  then  for  Weetamoo,  to  sit  once  more 
A  child  upon  her  father's  wigwam  floor  ! 
Once  more  with  her  old  fondness  to  beguile 
From  his  cold  eye  the  strange  light  of  a 
smile. 

The  long,  bright  days  of  summer  swiftly 


The  dry  leaves  whirled  in  autumn's  rising 

blast, 
And  evening  cloud  and  whitening  sunrisr 

rime 
Told  of  the  coming  of  the  winter-time. 

But  vainly  looked,  the  while,  young  Weeta, 

moo 

Down  the  dark  river  for  her  chief's  canoe  ; 
No  dusky  messenger  from  Saugus  brought 
The  grateful  tidings  which  the  young  wife 

sought. 

At  length  a  runner  from  her  father  sent, 
To  Winnepurkit's  sea-cooler!  wigwam  went ; 
"  Eagle  of  Saugus,  —  in  the  woods  the  dove 
Mourns  for  the    shelter  of   thy   wings   of 
love." 

But  the  dark  chief  of  Saugus  turned  aside 
In  the  grim  anger  of  hard-hearted  pride  ; 
"  I  bore  her  as  became  a  chieftain's 

daughter, 
Up  to  her  home  beside  the  gliding  water. 

"  If  now  no  more  a  mat  for  her  is  found 
Of    all   which   line   her   father's    wigwam 

round, 

Let  Pennacook  call  out  his  warrior  train, 
And   send   her  back   with  wampum   gifts 

again." 


NARRATIVE   AND  LEGENDARY   POEMS 


The  baffled  runner  turned  upon  his  track, 
Bearing  the  words  of  Winnepurkit  back. 
"  Dog   of   the    Marsh,"    cried   Pennacook, 

"  no  more 
Shall  child  of  mine  sit  on  his  wigwam  floor. 

"  Go,  let  him  seek  some  meaner  squaw  to 

spread 

The  stolen  bear-skin  of  his  beggar's  bed  ; 
Son  of  a  fish-hawk  !  let  him  dig  his  clams 
For  some  vile  daughter  of  the  Agawams, 

"  Or  coward  Nipmucks  !  may  his  scalp  dry 

black 

In  Mohawk  smoke,  before  I  send  her  back." 
He  shook  his    clenched  hand  towards  the 

ocean  wave, 
While  hoarse  assent  his  listening  council 

gave. 

Alas,  poor  bride  !  can  thy  grim  sire  impart 
His  iron  hardness  to  thy  woman's  heart  ? 
Or  cold  self-torturing  pride  like  his  atone 
For  love    denied  and    life's  warm   beauty 
flown  ? 

On  Autumn's  gray  and  mournful  grave  the 

snow 
Hung  its  white  wreaths  ;  with  stifled  voice 

and  low 
The  river  crept,  by  one  vast  bridge  o'er- 

crossed, 
Built  by  the  hoar-locked  artisan  of  Frost. 

And  many  a  moon  in  beauty  newly  born 
Pierced  the  red  sunset  with  her  silver  horn, 
Or,  from  the  east,  across  her  azure  field 
Rolled  the  wide  brightness  of  her  full-orbed 
shield. 

Yet  Winnepurkit  came  not,  —  on  the  mat 
Of  the  scorned  wife  her  dusky  rival  sat  ; 
And  he,  the  while,  in  Western  woods  afar, 
Urged  the  long  chase,  or  trod  the  path  of 
war. 

Dry  up    thy  tears,  young   daughter   of   a 

chief  ! 

Waste  not  on  him  the  sacredness  of  grief  ; 
Be  the  fierce  spirit  of  thy  sire  thine  own, 
His  lips  of  scorning,  and  his  heart  of  stone. 

What  heeds  the  warrior  of  a  hundred  fights, 
The  storm-worn  watcher  through  long  hunt 
ing  nights, 


Cold,  crafty,  proud  of  woman's  weak  dis« 
tress, 

Her  home-bound  grief  and  pining  loneli 
ness  ? 

VII.   THE   DEPARTURE 

The  wild  March  rains  had  fallen  fast  and 

long 

The  snowy  mountains  of  the  North  among, 
Making  each  vale  a  watercourse,  each  hill 
Bright  with  the  cascade  of  some  new-made 

rill. 

Gnawed  by  the  sunbeams,  softened  by  the 

rain, 
Heaved  underneath  by  the  swollen  current's 

strain, 

The  ice -bridge  yielded,  and  the  Merrimac 
Bore  the  huge  ruin  crashing  down  its  track. 

On  that  strong  turbid  water,  a  small  boat 
Guided  by  one  weak  hand  was  seen  to  float ; 
Evil  the  fate  which  loosed  it  from  the  shore, 
Too  early  voyager  with  too  frail  an  oar  ! 

Down  the  vexed  centre  of  that  rushing  tide, 
The    thick,    hugo    ice -blocks    threatening 

either  side, 

The  foam-white  rocks  of  Amoskeag  in  view, 
With    arrowy    swiftness     sped    that    light 


The  trapper,  moistening  his  moose's  meat 
On  the  wet  bank  by  Uncanoonuc's  feet, 
Saw  the  swift  boat  flash  down  the  troubled 

stream  ; 
Slept    he,  or  waked  he  ?    was  it  truth  ov 

dream  ? 

The  straining  eye  bent  fearfully  before, 
The  small  hand  clenching  on  the  useless  oar, 
The  bead-wrought  blanket  trailing  o'er  the 

water  — 
He  knew  them  all  —  woe  for  the  Sachem's 

daughter  ! 

Sick  and  aweary  of  her  lonely  life, 
Heedless  of  peril,  the  still  faithful  wife 
Had  left  her  mother's  grave,  her  father's 

door, 
To  seek  the  wigwam  of  her  chief  once  more 

Down   the    white   rapids   like  a   sear   leai 
whirled, 


BARCLAY   OF   URY 


33 


On  the  sharp  rocks  and  piled-up  ices  hurled, 
Empty  and  broken,  circled  the  canoe 
In  the  vexed  pool  below  —  but  where  was 
Weetamoo  ? 


VIII.   SONG   OF   INDIAN   WOMEN 

The  Dark  eye  has  left  us, 

The  Spring-bird  has  flown  ; 
On  the  pathway  of  spirits 

She  wanders  alone. 
The  song  of  the  wood-dove  has  died  on  our 

shore  : 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  1     \Ve  hear  it  no 
more  ! 

O  dark  water  Spirit  ! 

We  cast  on  thy  wave 
These  furs  which  may  never 

Hang  over  her  grave  ; 
Bear  down  to  the  lost  one  the  robes  that 

she  wore  : 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  !     We  see  her  no 
more  ! 

Of  the  strange  land  she  walks  in 

No  Powah  has  told  : 
It  may  burn  with  the  sunshine, 

Or  freeze  with  the  cold. 
Let  us  give  to  our  lost  one  the  robes  that 

she  wore  : 

Mat  wonck  kunna-monee  I    We  see  her  no 
more  ! 

The  path  she  is  treading 

Shall  soon  be  our  own  ; 
Each  gliding  in  shadow 

Unseen  and  alone  ! 

In  vain  shall  we  call  on  the  souls  gone  be 
fore  : 

Mat   wonck   kunna-monee  I     They  hear   us 
no  more  ! 

O  mighty  Sowanna  ! 

Thy  gateways  unfold, 
From  thy  wigwam  of  sunset 

Lift  curtains  of  gold  ! 
Take  home  the  poor  Spirit  whose  journey 

is  o'er  : 

Mat  wonck,  kunna-monee  !    We  see  her  no 
more  ! 

So  sang  the  Children  of  the  Leaves  beside 
The  broad,  dark  river's  coldly  flowing  tide  ; 


Now  low,  now  harsh,  with  sob-like  pause 
and  swell, 

On  the  high  wind  their  voices  rose  and 
fell. 

Nature's  wild  music,  —  sounds  of  wind 
swept  trees, 

The  scream  of  birds,  the  wailing  of  the 
breeze, 

The  roar  of  waters,  steady,  deep,  and 
strong,  — 

Mingled  and  murmured  in  that  farewell 
song. 


BARCLAY   OF    URY 

Among  the  earliest  converts  to  the  doctrines 
of  Friends  in  Scotland  was  Barclay  of  Ury,  an 
old  and  distinguished  soldier,  who  had  fought 
under  Gustavus  Adolphus,  in  Germany.  As  a 
Quaker,  he  became  the  object  of  persecution 
and  abuse  at  the  hands  of  the  magistrates  and 
the  populace.  None  bore  the  indignities  of 
the  mob  with  greater  patience  and  nobleness 
of  soul  than  this  once  proud  gentleman  and 
soldier.  One  of  his  friends,  on  an  occasion  of 
uncommon  rudeness,  lamented  that  he  should 
be  treated  so  harshly  in  his  old  age  who  had 
been  so  honored  before.  "  I  find  more  satis 
faction,"  said  Barclay,  "  as  well  as  honor,  in 
being  thus  insulted  for  my  religious  principles, 
than  when,  a  few  years  ago,  it  was  usual  for 
the  magistrates,  as  I  passed  the  city  of  Aber 
deen,  to  meet  me  on  the  road  and  conduct  me 
to  public  entertainment  in  their  hall,  and  then 
escort  me  out  again,  to  gain  my  favor." 

UP  the  streets  of  Aberdeen, 
By  the  kirk  and  college  green, 

Rode  the  Laird  of  Ury  ; 
Close  behind  him,  close  beside, 
Foul  of  mouth  and  evil-eyed, 

Pressed  the  mob  in  fury. 

Flouted  him  the  drunken  churl, 
Jeered  at  him  the  serving-girl, 

Prompt  to  please  her  master  ; 
And  the  begging  carlin,  late 
Fed  and  clothed  at  Ury's  gate, 

Cursed  him  as  he  passed  her, 

Yet,  with  calm  and  stately  mien 
Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen 

Came  he  slowly  riding  ; 
And,  to  all  he  saw  and  heard, 
Answering  not  with  bitter  word, 

Turning  not  for  chiding. 


34 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY    POEMS 


Came  a  troop  with  broadswords  swinging, 
Bits  and  bridles  sharply  ringing, 

Loose  and  free  and  fro  ward  ; 
Quoth  the  foremost,  "  Ride  him  down  ! 
Push  him  !  prick  him  !  through  the  town 

Drive  the  Quaker  coward  !  " 

But  from  out  the  thickening  crowd 
Cried  a  sudden  voice  and  loud  : 

"  Barclay  !      Ho  !  a  Barclay  !  " 
And  the  old  man  at  his  side 
Saw  a  comrade,  battle  tried, 

Scarred  and  sunburned  darkly  ; 

Who  with  ready  weapon  bare, 
Fronting  to  the  troopers  there, 

Cried  aloud  :  "  God  save  us, 
Call  ye  coward  him  who  stood 
Ankle  deep  in  Liitzen's  blood, 

With  the  brave  Gustavus  ?" 

"  Nay,  I  do  not  need  thy  sword, 
Comrade  mine,"  said  Ury's  lord  ; 

"  Put  it  up,  I  pray  thee  : 
Passive  to  His  holy  will, 
Trust  I  in  my  Master  still, 

Even  though  He  slay  me. 

"  Pledges  of  thy  love  and  faith, 
Proved  on  many  a  field  of  death, 

Not  by  me  are  needed." 
Marvelled  much  that  henchman  bold, 
That  his  laird,  so  stout  of  old, 

Now  so  meekly  pleaded. 

«  Woe 's  the  day  !  "  he  sadly  said, 
With  a  slowly  shaking  head, 

And  a  look  of  pity  ; 
"  Ury's  honest  lord  reviled, 
Mock  of  knave  and  sport  of  child, 

In  his  own  good  city  ! 

"  Speak  the  word,  and,  master  mine, 
As  we  charged  on  Tilly's  line, 

And  his  Walloon  lancers, 
Smiting  through  their  midst  we  '11  teach 
Civil  look  and  decent  speech 

To  these  boyish  prancers  !  " 

"  Marvel  not,  mine  ancient  friend, 
Like  beginning,  like  the  end," 

Quoth  the  Laird  of  Ury  ; 
"  Is  the  sinful  servant  more 
Than  his  gracious  Lord  who  bore 

Bonds  and  stripes  in  Jewry  ? 


"  Give  me  joy  that  in  His  name 
I  can  bear,  with  patient  frame, 

All  these  vain  ones  offer  ; 
While  for  them  He  suffereth  long, 
Shall  I  answer  wrong  with  wrong, 

Scoifing  with  the  scoffer  ? 

"  Happier  I,  with  loss  of  all, 
Hunted,  outlawed,  held  in  thrall, 

With  few  friends  to  greet  me, 
Than  when  reeve  and  squire  were  seen, 
Riding  out  from  Aberdeen, 

With  bared  heads  to  meet  me. 

"  When  each  goodwife,  o'er  and  o'er, 
Blessed  me  as  I  passed  her  door  ; 

And  the  snooded  daughter, 
Through  her  casement  glancing  down? 
Smiled  on  him  who  bore  renown 

From  red  fields  of  slaughter. 

"  Hard  to  feel  the  stranger's  scoff, 
Hard  the  old  friend's  falling  off, 

Hard  to  learn  forgiving  ; 
But  the  Lord  His  own  rewards, 
And  His  love  with  theirs  accords, 

Warm  and  fresh  and  living. 

"  Through  this  dark  and  storrry  night 
Faith  beholds  a  feeble  light 

Up  the  blackness  streaking  ; 
Knowing  God's  own  time  is  best, 
In  a  patient  hope  I  rest 

For  the  full  d?,y-breaking  ! '' 

So  the  Laird  of  Ury  said, 
Turning  slow  his  horse's  head 

Towards  the  Tolbooth  prison, 
Where,  through  iron  gates,  he  heard 
Poor  disciples  of  the  Word 

Preach  of  Christ  arisen  ! 

Not  in  vain,  Confessor  old, 
Unto  us  the  tale  is  told 

Of  thy  day  of  trial  ; 
Every  age  on  him  who  strays 
From  its  broad  and  beaten  ways 

Pours  its  seven-fold  vial. 

Happy  he  whose  inward  ear 
Angel  comfortings  can  hear, 

O'er  the  rabble's  laughter  ; 
And  while  Hatred's  fagots  burn, 
Glimpses  through  the  smoke  discern 

Of  the  good  hereafter. 


THE   ANGELS    OF   BUENA   VISTA 


35 


Knowing  this,  that  never  yet 
Share  of  Truth  was  vainly  set 

In  the  world's  wide  fallow  ; 
After  hands  shall  sow  the  seed, 
After  hands  from  hill  and  mead 

Reap  the  harvests  yellow. 

Thus,  with  somewhat  of  the  Seer, 
Must  the  moral  pioneer 

From  the  Future  borrow  ; 
Clothe  the  waste  with  dreams  of  grain, 
And,  011  midnight's  sky  of  rain, 

Paint  the  golden  morrow  ! 

THE  ANGELS   OF    BUENA  VISTA 

A  letter  -  writer  from  Mexico  during1  the 
Mexican  war,  when  detailing-  some  of  the  inci 
dents  at  the  terrible  fight  of  Buena  Vista, 
mentioned  that  Mexican  women  were  seen 
hovering  near  the  field  of  death,  for  the  pur 
pose  of  giving  aid  and  succor  to  the  wounded. 
One  poor  woman,  was  found  surrounded  by  the 
maimed  and  suffering  of  both  armies,  minister 
ing  to  the  wants  of  Americans  as  well  as  Mex 
icans  with  impartial  tenderness. 

SPEAK  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking 
northward  far  away, 

O'er  the  camp  of  the  invaders,  o'er  the  Mex 
ican  array, 

Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?  are  they 
far  or  come  they  near  ? 

Look  abroad,  and  tell  us,  sister,  whither 
rolls  the  storm  we  hear. 

"  Down  the  hills  of  Angostura  still  the  storm 

of  battle  rolls  ; 
Blood  is  flowing,  men  are  dying  ;  God  have 

mercy  on  their  souls  !  " 
Who  is  losing  ?  who  is  winning  ?     "  Over 

hill  and  over  plain, 
I  see  but  smoke  of  cannon  clouding  through 

the  mountain  rain. " 

Holy  Mother  !  keep  our  brothers  !  Look, 
Ximena,  look  once  more. 

"  Still  I  see  the  fearful  whirlwind  rolling 
darkly  as  before, 

Bearing  on,  in  strange  confusion,  friend  and 
foeman,  foot  and  horse, 

Like  some  wild  and  troubled  torrent  sweep 
ing  down  its  mountain  course." 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  "  Ah  !  the 
smoke  has  rolled  away  ; 


And  I  see  the  Northern  rifles  gleaming  down 

the  ranks  of  gray. 
Hark  !   that  sudden  blast  of  buglej  !  there 

the  troop  of  Minon  wheels  ; 
There  the   Northern  horses  thunder,  with 

the  cannon  at  their  heels. 

"  Jesu,  pity  !  how  it  thickens  !   now  retreat 

and  now  advance ! 
Right  against  the  blazing    cannon  shivers 

Puebla's  charging  lance  ! 
Down  they  go,    the    brave  young    riders ; 

horse  and  foot  together  fall  ; 
Like  a  ploughshare  in  the  fallow,  through 

them  ploughs  the  Northern  ball." 

Nearer  came  the  storm  and  nearer,  rolling 

fast  and  frightful  on  ! 
Speak,  Ximena,  speak  and  tell  us,  who  has 

lost,  and  who  has  won  ? 
"  Alas  !   alas  !  I  know  not  ;  friend  and  foe 

together  fall, 
O'er  the  dying  rush  the  living  :  pray,  my 

sisters,  for  them  all  ! 

"  Lo !     the    wind    the    smoke    is    lifting. 

Blessed  Mother,  save  my  brain  ! 
I  can  see  the  wounded  crawling  slowly  out 

from  heaps  of  slain. 
Now  they  stagger,  blind  and  bleeding  ;  now 

they  fall,  and  strive  to  rise  ; 
Hasten,  sisters,    haste  and  save  them,  lest 

they  die  before  our  eyes  ! 

"  O  my  heart's  love  !  O  my  dear  one  !  lay 

thy  poor  head  011  my  knee  ; 
Dost  thou  know  the   lips  that  kiss  thee  ? 

Canst   thou   hear   me  ?    canst   thou 

see? 
O  my  husband,  brave   and  gentle  !   O  my 

Bernal,  look  once  more 
On  the  blessed  cross  before  thee  !    Mercy  ! 

mercy  !  all  is  o'er  !  " 

Dry  thy  tears,  my  poor  Ximena  ;  lay  thy 

dear  one  down  to  rest  ; 
Let  his  hands  be  meekly  folded,  lay  the  cross 

upon  his  breast  ; 
Let  his  dirge    be  sung  hereafter,  and  his 

funeral  masses  said  ; 
To-day,  thou  poor  bereaved  one,  the  living 

ask  thy  aid. 

Close  beside  her,  faintly  moaning,  fair  and 
young,  a  soldier  lay, 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY  POEMS 


Torn  with  shot  and  pierced  with  lances, 
bleeding  slow  his  life  away  ; 

But,  as  tenderly  before  him  the  lorn  Ximena 
knelt, 

She  saw  the  Northern  eagle  shining  on  his 
pistol-belt. 

With  a  stifled  cry  of  horror  straight  she 

turned  away  her  head  ; 
With  a  sad  and  bitter  feeling  looked  she 

back  upon  her  dead  ; 
But  she  heard  the  youth's  low  moaning,  and 

his  struggling  breath  of  pain, 
And   she  raised  the    cooling  water  to   his 

parching  lips  again. 

Whispered  low  the  dying  soldier,  pressed 

her  hand  and  faintly  smiled  ; 
Was  that  pitying  face   his  mother's  ?  did 

she  watch  beside  her  child  ? 
All  his  stranger  words  with   meaning  her 

woman's  heart  supplied  ; 
With  her  kiss  upon  his  forehead, "  Mother  !  " 

murmured  he,  and  died  ! 

"  A  bitter  curse  upon  them,  poor  boy,  who 
led  thee  forth, 

From  some  gentle,  sad-eyed  mother,  weep 
ing,  lonely,  in  the  North  !  " 

Spake  the  mournful  Mexic  woman,  as  she 
laid  him  with  her  dead, 

And  turned  to  soothe  the  living,  and  bind 
the  wounds  which  bled. 

Look  forth  once  more,  Ximena  !  "  Like  a 
cloud  before  the  wind 

Rolls  the  battle  down  the  mountains,  leav 
ing  blood  and  death  behind  ; 

Ah  !  they  plead  in  vain  for  mercy  ;  in  the 
dust  the  wounded  strive  ; 

Hide  your  faces,  holy  angels  !  O  thou 
Christ  of  God,  forgive  !  " 

Sink,  O  Night,  among  thy  mountains  !  let 
the  cool,  gray  shadows  fall  ; 

Dying  brothers,  lighting  demons,  drop  thy 
curtain  over  all  ! 

Through  the  thickening  winter  twilight, 
wide  apart  the  battle  rolled, 

In  its  sheath  the  sabre  rested,  and  the  can 
non's  lips  grew  cold. 

But  the  noble  Mexic  women  still  their  holy 

task  pursued, 
Through  that  long,  dark  night  of  sorrow, 

worn  and  faint  and  lacking  food. 


Over  weak  and  suffering  brothers,  with  a 

tender  care  they  hung, 
And  the  dying  foeman  blessed  them  in  a 

strange  and  Northern  tongue. 

Not   wholly   lost,  O    Father  !  is   this   evil 

world  of  ours  ; 
Upward,  through  its  blood  and  ashes;  spring 

afresh  the  Eden  flowers  ; 
From  its  smoking  hell  of  battle,  Love  and 

Pity  send  their  prayer, 
And   still   thy  white- winged  angels  hover 

dimly  in  our  air  ! 


THE   LEGEND   OF   ST.  MARK 

"  This  legend  [to  which  my  attention  war 
called  by  my  friend  Charles  Sumner],  is  the 
subject  of  a  celebrated  picture  by  Tintoretto, 
of  which  Mr.  Rogers  possesses  the  original 
sketch.  The  slave  lies  on  the  ground,  amid  q 
crowd  of  spectators,  who  look  on,  animated  by 
all  the  various  emotions  of  sympathy,  rage, 
terror ;  a  woman,  in  front,  with  a  child  in  hei 
arms,  has  always  been  admired  for  the  lifelike 
vivacity  of  her  attitude  and  expression.  Th^ 
executioner  holds  up  the  broken  implements , 
St.  Mark,  with  a  headlong1  movement,  seems  to 
rush  down  from  heaven  in  haste  to  save  his 
worshipper.  The  dramatic  grouping  in  this 
picture  is  wonderful ;  the  coloring,  in  its  gor 
geous  depth  and  harmony,  is,  in  Mr.  Rogers's 
sketch,  finer  than  in  the  picture."  —  MRS. 
JAMESON'S  Sacred  and  Legendary  Art,  i.  154. 

THE  day  is  closing  dark  and  cold, 

With  roaring  blast  and  sleety  showers  ; 

And  through  the  dusk  the  lilacs  wear 
The  bloom  of  snow,  instead  of  flowers. 

I  turn  me  from  the  gloom  without, 

To  ponder  o'er  a  tale  of  old  ; 
A  legend  of  the  age  of  Faith, 

By  dreaming  monk  or  abbess  told. 

On  Tintoretto's  canvas  lives 

That  fancy  of  a  loving  heart, 
In  graceful  lines  and  shapes  of  power, 

And  hues  immortal  as  his  art. 

In  Provence  (so  the  story  runs) 

There  lived  a  lord,  to  whom,  as  slave, 

A  peasant-boy  of  tender  years 

The  chance  of  trade  or  conquest  gave. 

Forth-looking  from  the  castle  tower, 
Beyond  the  hills  with  almonds  dark, 


KATHLEEN 


37 


The  straining  eye  could  scarce  discern 
The  chapel  of  the  good  St.  Mark. 

And  there,  when  bitter  word  or  fare 
The  service  of  the  youth  repaid, 

By  stealth,  before  that  holy  shrine, 

For  grace  to  bear  his  wrong,  he  prayed. 

The  steed  stamped  at  the  castle  gate, 
The  boar-hunt  sounded  on  the  hill  ; 

Why  stayed  the  Baron  from  the  chase, 
With  looks  so  stern,  and  words  so  ill  ? 

K  Go,  bind  yon  slave  !  and  let  him  learn, 
By  scath  of  fire  and  strain  of  cord, 

Eow  ill  they  speed  who  give  dead  saints 
The  homage  due  their  living  lord  !  " 

They  boun^  him  on  the  fearful  rack, 

When,    through   the   dungeon's  vaulted 
dark, 

He  saw  the  light  of  shining  robes, 
And  knew  the  face  of  good  St.  Mark. 

Then  sank  the  iron  rack  apart, 
The  cords  released  their  cruel  clasp, 

TTie  pincers,  with  their  teeth  of  fire, 
Fell  broken  from  the  torturer's  grasp. 

And  lo  !  before  the  Youth  and  Saint, 
Barred    door    and    wall    of    stone    gave 
way; 

And  up  from  bondage  and  the  night 
They  passed  to  freedom  and  the  day  ! 

0  dreaming  monk  !  thy  tale  is  true  ; 

O  painter !  true  thy  pencil's  art  ; 
In  tones  of  hope  and  prophecy, 

Ye  whisper  to  my  listening  heart  ! 

Unheard  no  burdened  heart's  appeal 
Moans  up  to  God's  inclining  ear  ; 

Unheeded  by  his  tender  eye, 

Falls  to  the  earth  no  sufferer's  tear. 

For  still  the  Lord  alone  is  God  ! 

The  pomp  and  power  of  tyrant  man 
Are  scattered  at,  his  lightest  breath, 

Like  chaff  before  the  winnower's  fan. 

Not  always  shall  the  slave  uplift 
His  heavy  hands  to  Heaven  in  vain. 

God's  angel,  like  the  good  St.  Mark, 

Comes     shining     down     to     break     his 
chain  ! 


O  weary  ones  !  ye  may  not  see 

Your  helpers  in  their  downward  flight; 

Nor  hear  the  sound  of  silver  wings 

Slow  beating  through  the  hush  of  night ) 

But  not  the  less  gray  Dothan  shone, 
With  sunbright  watchers  bending  low 

That  Fear's  dim  eye  beheld  alone 
The  spear-heads  of  the  Syrian  foe. 

There  are,  who,  like  the  Seer  of  old, 
Can  see  the  helpers  God  has  sent, 

And  how  life's  rugged  mountain-side 
Is  white  with  many  an  angel  tent ! 

They  hear  the  heralds  whom  our  Lord 
Sends  down  his  pathway  to  prepare  ; 

And  light,  from  others  hidden,  shines 
On  their  high  place  of  faith  and  prayer. 

Let  such,  for  earth's  despairing  ones, 
Hopeless,  yet  longing  to  be  free, 

Breathe  once  again  the  Prophet's  prayer  : 
"Lord,  ope   their   eyes,  that   they  may 


KATHLEEN 

This  ballad  was  originally  published  in  my 
prose  work,  Leaves  from  Margaret  Smith1  s  Jour 
nal,  as  the  song-  of  a  wandering-  Milesian  school 
master.  In  the  seventeenth  century,  slavery 
in  the  New  World  was  by  no  means  confined  to 
the  natives  of  Africa.  Political  offenders  and 
criminals  were  transported  by  the  British  gov 
ernment  to  the  plantations  of  Barbadoes  and 
Virginia,  where  they  were  sold  like  cattle  in  the 
market.  Kidnapping  of  free  and  innocent 
white  persons  was  practised  to  a  considerable 
extent  in  the  seaports  of  the  United  Kingdom. 

0  NORAH.  lay  your  basket  down, 

And  rest  your  weary  hand, 
And  come  and  hear  me  sing  a  song 

Of  our  old  Ireland. 

There  was  a  lord  of  Galaway, 

A  mighty  lord  was  he  ; 
And  he  did  wed  a  second  wife, 

A  maid  of  low  degree. 

But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so,  in  evil  spite, 
She  baked  the  black  bread  for  his  "Un, 

And  fed  her  own  with  white. 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY    POEMS 


She  whipped  the  maids  and   starved   the 
kern, 

And  drove  away  the  poor  ; 
"  Ah,  woe  is  me  ! "  the  old  lord  said, 

"  1  rue  my  bargain  sore  !  " 

This  lord  he  had  a  daughter  fair, 

Beloved  of  old  and  young, 
And  nightly  round  the  shealing-fires 

Of  her  the  gleeman  sung. 

"  As  sweet  and  good  is  young  Kathleen 

As  Eve  before  her  fall  ; " 
So  sang  the  harper  at  the  fair, 

So  harped  he  in  the  hall. 

"  Oh,  come  to  me,  my  daughter  dear  ! 

Come  sit  upon  my  knee, 
For  looking  in  your  face,  Kathleen, 

Your  mother's  own  I  see  ! " 

He    smoothed     and     smoothed     her    hair 
away, 

He  kissed  her  forehead  fair  ; 
"  It  is  my  darling  Mary's  brow, 

It  is  my  darling's  hair  ! " 

Oh,  then  spake  up  the  angry  dame, 

"Get  up,  get  up,"  quoth  she, 
"  I  '11  sell  ye  over  Ireland, 

I  '11  sell  ye  o'er  the  sea  !  " 

She  clipped  her  glossy  hair  away, 
That  none  her  rank  might  know, 

She  took  away  her  gown  of  silk, 
And  gave  her  one  of  tow, 

And  sent  her  down  to  Limerick  town 

And  to  a  seaman  sold 
This  daughter  of  an  Irish  lord 

For  ten  good  pounds  in  gold. 

The  lord  he  smote  upon  his  breast, 

And  tore  his  beard  so  gray; 
But  he  was  old,  and  she  was  young, 

And  so  she  had  her  way. 

Sure  that  same  night  the  Banshee  howled 

To  fright  the  evil  dame, 
And  fairy  folks,  who  loved  Kathleen, 

With  funeral  torches  came. 

She   watched   them  glancing  through   the 

trees, 
And  glimmering  down  the  hill  ; 


They  crept  before  the  dead-vault  door, 
And  there  they  all  stood  still ! 

"  Get  up,  old  man  !  the  wake-lights  shine  ! r 
"  Ye  murthering  witch,"  quoth  he, 

"  So  I  'm  rid  of  your  tongue,  I  little  care 
If  they  shine  for  you  or  me." 

"  Oh,  whoso  brings  my  daughter  back, 
My  gold  and  land  shall  have  !  " 

Oh,  then  spake  up  his  handsome  page, 
"  No  gold  nor  land  I  crave  ! 

"  But  give  to  me  your  daughter  dear, 

Give  sweet  Kathleen  to  me, 
Be  she  on  sea  or  be  she  on  land, 

I  '11  bring  her  back  to  thee." 

"  My  daughter  is  a  lady  born, 

And  you  of  low  degree, 
But  she  shall  be  your  bride  the  day 

You  bring  her  back  to  me." 

He  sailed  east,  he  sailed  west, 

And  far  and  long  sailed  he, 
Until  he  came  to  Boston  town, 

Across  the  great  salt  sea. 

"  Oh,  have  ye  seen  the  young  Kathleen, 

The  flower  of  Ireland  ? 
Ye  '11  know  her  by  her  eyes  so  blue, 

And  by  her  snow-white  hand  !  " 

Out  spake  an  ancient  man,  "  I  know 

The  maiden  whom  ye  mean  ; 
I  bought  her  of  a  Limerick  man, 

And  she  is  called  Kathleen. 

"  No  skill  hath  she  in  household  work, 

Her  hands  are  soft  and  white, 
Yet  well  by  loving  looks  and  ways 

She  doth  her  cost  requite." 

So  up  they  walked  through  Boston  town, 

And  met  a  maiden  fair, 
A  little  basket  on  her  arm 

So  snowy-white  and  bare. 

"  Come  hither,  child,  and  say  hast  thou 

This  young  man  ever  seen  ?  " 
They  wept  within  each  other's  arms, 

The  page  and  young  Kathleen. 

"  Oh  give  to  me  this  darling  child, 
And  take  my  purse  of  gold." 


THE   WELL   OF   LOCH   MAREE 


39 


*  Nay,  not  by  me,"  her  master  said, 
"Shall  sweet  Kathleen  be  sold. 

"  We  loved  her  in  the  place  of  one 

The  Lord  hath  early  ta'en  ; 
But,  since  her  heart 's  in  Ireland, 

We  give  her  back  again  !  " 

Oh,  for  that  same  the  saints  in  heaven 

For  his  poor  soul  shall  pray, 
And  Mary  Mother  wash  with  tears 

His  heresies  away. 

Sure  now  they  dwell  in  Ireland  ; 

As  you  go  up  Claremore 
Ye  '11  see  their  castle  looking  down 

The  pleasant  Galway  shore. 

And  the  old  lord's  wife  is  dead  and  gone, 

And  a  happy  man  is  he, 
For  he  sits  beside  his  own  Kathleen, 

With  her  darling  on  his  knee. 


THE  WELL   OF    LOCH    MAREE 

Pennant,  in  his  Voyage  to  the  Hebrides,  de 
scribes  the  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree,  the  waters 
of  which  were  supposed  to  effect  a  miraculous 
cure  of  melancholy,  trouble,  and  insanity. 

CALM  on  the  breast  of  Loch  Maree 

A  little  isle  reposes  ; 
A  shadow  woven  of  the  oak 

And  willow  o'er  it  closes. 

Within,  a  Druid's  mound  is  seen, 
Set  round  with  stony  warders  ; 

A  fountain,  gushing  through  the  turf, 
Flows  o'er  its  grassy  borders. 

And  whoso  bathes  therein  his  brow, 
With  care  or  madness  burning, 

Feels  once  again  his  healthful  thought 
And  sense  of  peace  returning. 

O  restless  heart  and  fevered  brain, 

Unquiet  and  unstable, 
That  holy  well  of  Loch  Maree 

Is  more  than  idle  fable  ! 

Life's  changes  vex,  its  discords  stun, 
Its  glaring  sunshine  blindeth, 

And  blest  is  he  who  on  his  way 
That  fount  of  healing  findeth  J 


The  shadows  of  a  humbled  will 
And  contrite  heart  are  o'er  it ; 

Go  read  its  legend,  "  TRUST  IN  GOD," 
On  Faith's  white  stones  before  it. 


THE  CHAPEL  OF    THE  HERMITS 

The  incident  upon  which  this  poem  is  based 
is  related  in  a  note  to  Bernardin  Henri  Saint 
Pierre's  Etudes  de  la  Nature. 

"  We  arrived  at  the  habitation  of  the  Her 
mits  a  little  before  they  sat  down  to  their  table, 
and  while  they  were  still  at  church.  J.  J. 
Rousseau  proposed  to  me  to  offer  up  our  devo 
tions.  The  hermits  were  reciting1  the  Litanies 
of  Providence,  which  are  remarkably  beautiful. 
After  we  had  addressed  our  prayers  to  God, 
and  the  hermits  were  proceeding1  to  the  refec 
tory,  Rousseau  said  to  me,  with  his  heart 
overflowing1,  'At  this  moment  I  experience 
what  is  said  in  the  gospel :  Where  two  or  three 
are  gathered  together  in  my  name,  there  am  I  in 
the  midst  of  them.  There  is  here  a  feeling  of 
peace  and  happiness  which  penetrates  the  soul.' 
I  said,  '  If  Fe"nelon  had  lived,  you  world  have 
been  a  Catholic.'  He  exclaimed,  with  tears  in 
his  eyes,  '  Oh,  if  Fe"nelon  were  alive,  I  would 

I   struggle   to   get   into   his   service,   even  as  a 

;   lackey!'" 

In  my  sketch  of  Saint  Pierre,  it  will  be  seen 
that  I  have  somewhat  antedated  the  period  of 
his  old  age.  At  that  time  he  was  not  probably 
more  than  fifty.  In  describing  him,  I  have  by 
no  means  exaggerated  his  own  history  of  his 
mental  condition  at  the  period  of  the  story. 
In  the  fragmentary  Sequel  to  his  Studies  of 
Nature,  he  thus  speaks  of  himself:  "The  in 
gratitude  of  those  of  whom  I  had  deserved 
kindness,  unexpected  family  misfortunes,  the 
total  loss  of  my  small  patrimony  through  en 
terprises  solely  undertaken  for  the  benefit  of 
my  country,  the  debts  under  which  I  lay  op 
pressed,  the  blasting  of  all  my  hopes,  —  these 
combined  calamities  made  dreadful  inroads 
upon  my  health  and  reason.  ...  I  found  it 
impossible  to  continue  in  a  room  where  there 
was  company,  especially  if  the  doors  were  shut. 
I  could  not  even  cross  an  alley  in  a  public  g'ar- 
d;->n,  if  several  persons  had  got  together  in  it. 
When  alone,  my  malady  subsided.  I  felt  my 
self  likewise  at  ease  in  places  where  I  saw  chil 
dren  only.  At  the  sight  of  any  one  walking 
up  to  the  place  where  I  was,  I  felt  my  whole 
frame  agitated,  and  retired.  I  often  said  to 
myself,  '  My  sole  studv  has  been  to  merit  well 
of  mankind  ;  why  do  I  fear  them  ?  '  ' 

He  attributes  his  improved  health  of  mind 
and  body  to  the  counsels  of  his  friend,  J.  J. 
Rousseau.  "  I  reuounced."  says  he,  "  my 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


I  threw  my  eyes  upon  the  works  of  nature, 
which  spake  to  all  my  senses  a  language  which 
neither  time  nor  nations  have  it  in  their  power 
to  alter.  Thenceforth  my  histories  and  my 
journals  were  the  herbage  of  the  fields  and 
meadows.  My  thoughts  did  not  go  forth  pain 
fully  after  them,  as  in  the  case  of  human 
systems  ;  but  their  thoughts,  under  a  thousand 
engaging1  forms,  quietly  sought  me.  In  these 
I  studied,  without  effort,  the  laws  of  that  Uni 
versal  Wisdom  which  had  surrounded  me  from 
the  cradle,  but  on  which  heretofore  I  had  be 
stowed  little  attention." 

Speaking  of  Rousseau,  he  says  :  "  I  derived 
inexpressible  satisfaction  from  his  society. 
What  I  prized  still  more  than  his  genius  was 
his  probity.  He  was  one  of  the  few  literary 
characters,  tried  in  the  furnace  of  affliction,  to 
whom  you  could,  with  perfect  security,  confide 
your  most  secret  thoughts.  .  .  .  Even  when  he 
deviated,  and  became  the  victim  of  himself  or 
of  others,  he  could  forget  his  own  misery  in 
devotion  to  the  welfare  of  mankind.  He  was 
uniformly  the  advocate  of  the  miserable. 
There  might  be  inscribed  on  his  tomb  these 
affecting  words  from  that  Book  of  which  he 
carried  always  about  him  some  select  passages, 
during  the  last  years  of  his  life  :  His  sins, 
which  are  many,  are  forgiven,  for  he  loved 
much." 

"  I  DO  believe,  and  yet,  in  grief, 
I  pray  for  help  to  unbelief  ; 
For  needful  strength  aside  to  lay 
The  daily  cumberings  of  my  way. 

"  I  'm  sick  at  heart  of  craft  and  cant, 
Sick  of  the  crazed  enthusiast's  rant, 
Profession's  smooth  hypocrisies, 
And  creeds  of  iron,  and  lives  of  ease. 

"I  ponder  o'er  the  sacred  word, 
I  read  the  record  of  our  Lord  ; 
And,  weak  and  troubled,  envy  them 
Who    touched     His     seamless     garment's 
hem  ; 

"  Who  saw  the  tears  of  love  He  wept 
Above  the  grave  where  Lazarus  slept ; 
And  heard,  amidst  the  shadows  dim 
Of  Olivet,  His  evening  hymn. 

"  How  blessed  the  swineherd's  low  estate, 
The  beggar  crouching  at  the  gate, 
The  leper  loathly  and  abhorred, 
Whose  eyes  of  flesh  beheld  the  Lord  ! 

*'  O  sacred  soil  His  sandals  pressed  ! 
Sweet  fountains  of  His  noonday  rest  ! 


0  light  and  air  of  Palestine, 
Impregnate  with  His  life  divine  ! 

"  Oh,  bear  me  thither  !     Let  me  look 
On  Siloa's  pool,  and  Kedron's  brook  ; 
Kneel  at  Gethsemane,  and  by 
Gennesaret  walk,  before  I  die  ! 

"  Methinks  this  cold  and  northern  night 
Would  melt  before  that  Orient  light  ; 
And,  wet  by  Hermon's  clew  and  rain, 
My  childhood's  faith  revive  again  !  " 

So  spake  my  friend,  one  autumn  day, 
Where  the  still  river  slid  away 
Beneath  us,  and  above  the  brown 
Red  curtains  of  the  woods  shut  down. 

Then  said  I,  —  for  I  could  not  brook 
The  mute  appealing  of  his  look,  — 
"  I  too  am  weak,  and  faith  is  small, 
And  blindness  happeneth  unto  all. 

"  Yet  sometimes  glimpses  on  my  sight, 
Through  present  wrong,  the  eternal  right ; 
And,  step  by  step,  since  time  began, 

1  see  the  steady  gain  of  man  ; 

"  That  all  of  good  the  past  hath  had 
Remains  to  make  our  own  time  glad, 
Our  common  daily  life  divine, 
And  every  land  a  Palestine. 

"  Thou  weariest  of  thy  present  state  ; 
What  gain  to  thee  time's  holiest  date  ? 
The  doubter  now  perchance  had  been 
As  High  Priest  or  as  Pilate  then  ! 

"  What  thougut  Choraziu's  scribes  ?  Whai 

faith 

In  Him  had  Nain  and  Nazareth  ? 
Of  the  few  followers  whom  He  led 
One  sold  Him,  — all  forsook  and  fled. 

"  O  friend  !  we  need  nor  rock  nor  sand, 
Nor  storied  stream  of  Morniug-Land  ; 
The  heavens  are  glassed  in  Merrimac,  — 
What  more  could  Jordan  render  back  ? 

"  We  lack  but  open  eye  and  ear 
To  find  the  Orient's  marvels  here  ; 
The  still  small  voice  in  autumn's  hush, 
Yon  maple  wood  the  burning  bush. 

"  For  still  the  new  transcends  the  old. 
In  signs  and  tokens  manifold  ; 


THE   CHAPEL  OF   THE   HERMITS 


Slaves  rise  up  men  ;  the  olive  waves, 
With  roots  deep  set  in  battle  graves  ! 

"  Through  the  harsh  noises  of  our  day 
A  low,  sweet  prelude  finds  its  way  ; 
Through  clouds  of   doubt,  and  creeds   of 

fear, 
A  light  is  breaking,  calm  and  clear. 

"  That  song  of  Love,  now  low  and  far, 
Erelong  shall  swell  from  star  to  star  ! 
That  light,  the  breaking  day,  which  tips 
The  golden-spired  Apocalypse  !  " 

Then,  when  my  good  friend  shook  his  head, 
And,  sighing,  sadly  smiled,  I  said  : 
"  Thou  mind'st  me  of  a  story  told 
In  rare  Bernardin's  leaves  of  gold." 

And  while  the  slanted  sunbeams  wove 
The  shadows  of  the  frost-stained  grove, 
And,  picturing  all,  the  river  ran 
O'er  cloud  and  wood,  I  thus  began  :  — 


In  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  wood 
The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits  stood  ; 
And  thither,  at  the  close  of  day, 
Came  two  old  pilgrims,  worn  and  gray. 

One,  whose  impetuous  youth  defied 
The  storms  of  Baikal's  wintry  side, 
And  mused  and  dreamed  where  tropic  day 
Flamed  o'er  his  lost  Virginia's  bay. 

His  simple  tale  of  love  and  woe 
All  hearts  had  melted,  high  or  low  ;  — 
A  blissful  pain,  a  sweet  distress, 
Immortal  in  its  tenderness. 

Yet,  while  above  his  charmed  page 
Beat  quick  the  young  heart  of  his  age, 
He  walked  amidst  the  crowd  unknown, 
A  sorrowing  old  man,  strange  and  lone. 

A  homeless,  troubled  age,  —  the  gray 
Pale  setting  of  a  weary  day  ; 
Too  dull  his  ear  for  voice  of  praise, 
Too  sadly  worn  his  brow  for  bays. 

Pride,  lust  of  power  and  glory,  slept  ; 
Yet  still  his  heart  its  young  dream  kept, 
And,  wandering  like  the  deluge-dove, 
Still  sought  the  resting-place  of  love. 


And,  mateless,  childless,  envied  more 
The  peasant's  welcome  from  his  door 
By  smiling  eyes  at  eventide, 
Than  kingly  gifts  or  lettered  pride. 

Until,  in  place  of  wife  and  child, 
All-pitying  Nature  on  him  smiled, 
And  gave  to  him  the  golden  keys 
To  all  her  inmost  sanctities. 

Mild  Druid  of  her  wood-paths  dim  ! 
She  laid  her  great  heart  bare  to  him, 
Its  loves  and  sweet  accords  ;  —  he  saw 
The  beauty  of  her  perfect  law. 

The  language  of  her  signs  he  knew, 
What  notes  her  cloudy  clarion  blew  ; 
The  rhythm  of  autumn's  forest  dyes, 
The  hymn  of  sunset's  painted  skies. 

And  thus  he  seemed  to  hear  the  song 
Which  swept,  of  old,  the  stars  along  ; 
And  to  his  eyes  the  earth  once  more 
Its  fresh  and  primal  beauty  wore. 

Who    sought    with    him,     from     summer 

air, 

And  field  and  wood,  a  balm  for  care, 
And  bathed  in  light  of  sunset  skies 
His  tortured  nerves  and  weary  eyes  ? 

His  fame  on  all  the  winds  had  flown  ; 
His  words  had  shaken  crypt  and  throne  ; 
Like  fire  on  camp  and  court  and  cell 
They  dropped,  and  kindled  as  they  fell. 

Beneath  the  pomps  of  state,  below 
The  mitred  juggler's  masque  and  show, 
A  prophecy,  a  vague  hope,  ran 
His  burning  thought  from  man  to  man. 

For  peace  or  rest  too  well  he  saw 
The  fraud  of  priests,  the  wrong  of  law, 
And  felt  how  hard,  between  the  two, 
Their  breath  of  pain  the  millions  drew. 

A  prophet-utterance,  strong  and  wild, 
The  weakness  of  an  unweaned  child, 
A  sun-bright  hope  for  human-kind, 
And  self-despair,  in  him  combined. 

He  loathed  the  false,  yet  lived  not  true 
To  half  the  glorious  truths  he  knew  ; 
The  doubt,  the  discord,  and  the  sin, 
He  mourned  without,  he  felt  within 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Untrod  by  him  the  path  he  showed, 
Sweet  pictures  on  his  easel  glowed 
Of  simple  faith,  and  loves  of  home, 
And  virtue's  golden  days  to  come. 

But  weakness,  shame,  and  folly  made 
The  foil  to  all  his  pen  portrayed  ; 
Still,  where  his  dreamy  splendors  shone, 
The  shadow  of  himself  was  thrown. 

Lord,  what  is  man,  whose  thought,  at  times, 
Up  to  Thy  sevenfold  brightness  climbs, 
While  still  his  grosser  instinct  clings 
To  earth,  like  other  creeping  things  ! 

So  rich  in  words,  in  acts  so  mean  ; 

So  high,  so  low  ;  chance-swung  between 

The  foulness  of  the  penal  pit 

And  Truth's  clear  sky,  millennium-lit  ! 

Vain,  pride  of  star-lent  genius  !  —  vain, 
Quick  fancy  and  creative  brain, 
Unblest  by  prayerful  sacrifice, 
Absurdly  great,  or  weakly  wise  I 

Midst  yearnings  for  a  truer  life, 
Without  were  fears,  within  was  strife  ; 
And  still  his  wayward  act  denied 
The  perfect  good  for  which  he  sighed. 

The  love  he  sent  forth  void  returned  ; 
The  fame  that  crowned  him  scorched  and 

burned, 

Burning,  yet  cold  and  drear  and  lone,  — 
A  fire-mount  in  a  frozen  zone  1 

Like  that  the  gray-haired  sea-king  passed, 
Seen  southward  from  his  sleety  mast, 
About  whose  brows  of  changeless  frost 
A  wreath  of  flame  the  wild  winds  tossed. 

Far  round  the  mournful  beauty  played 
Of  lambent  light  and  purple  shade, 
Lost  on  the  fixed  and  dumb  despair 
Of  frozen  earth  and  sea  and  air  ! 

A  man  apart,  unknown,  unloved 
By  those  whose  wrongs  his  soul  had  moved, 
He  bore  the  ban  of  Church  and  State, 
The  goo^.  man's  fear,  the  bigot's  hate  ! 

Forth  from  the  city's  noise  and  throng, 
Its  pomp  and  shame,  its  sin  and  wrong, 
The  twain  that  summer  day  had  strayed 
To  Mount  Valerien's  chestnut  shade. 


To  them  the  green  fields  and  the  wood 
Lent  something  of  their  quietude, 
And  golden-tinted  sunset  seemed 
Prophetical  of  all  they  dreamed. 

The  hermits  from  their  simple  cares 
The  bell  was  calling  home  to  prayers, 
And,  listening  to  its  sound,  the  twain 
Seemed  lapped  in  childhood's  trust  again. 

Wide  open  stood  the  chapel  door  ; 

A  sweet  old  music,  swelling  o'er 

Low  prayerful  murmurs,  issued  thenoe,  — 

The  Litanies  of  Providence  ! 

Then   Rousseau   spake  :   "  Where   two   or 

three 

In  His  name  meet,  He  there  will  be  ! " 
And  then,  in  silence,  on  their  knees 
They  sank  beneath  the  chestnut-trees. 

As  to  the  blind  returning  light, 
As  daybreak  to  the  Arctic  night, 
Old  faith  revived  ;  the  doubts  of  years 
Dissolved  in  reverential  tears. 

That  gush  of  feeling  overpast, 
"  Ah  me  !  "  Bernardin  sighed  at  last, 
"  I  would  thy  bitterest  foes  could  see 
Thy  heart  as  it  is  seen  of  me  ! 

"  No  church  of  God  hast  thou  denied  ; 
Thou  hast  but  spurned  in  scorn  aside 
A  bare  and  hollow  counterfeit, 
Profaning  the  pure  name  of  it  ! 

"  With  dry  dead  moss  and  marish  weeds 
His  fire  the  western  herdsman  feeds, 
And  greener  from  the  ashen  plain 
The  sweet  spring  grasses  rise  again. 

"  Nor  thunder-peal  nor  mighty  wind 
Disturb  the  solid  sky  behind  ; 
And  through  the  cloud  the  red  bolt  rends 
The  calm,  still  smile  of  Heaven  descends! 

"  Thus  through  the  world,  like  bolt  and 
blast, 

And  scourging  fire,  thy  words  have  passed 

Clouds  break,  —  the  steadfast  heavens  re 
main  ; 

Weeds  burn,  —  the  ashes  feed  the  grain  ! 

"  But  whoso  strives  with  wron<r  mav  mid 
Its  touch  pollute,  its  darkness  blind  ; 


THE  CHAPEL   OF   THE    HERMITS 


43 


Ai.d  learn,  as  latent  fraud  is  shown 
£n  others'  faith,  to  doubt  his  own. 

"With  dream  and  falsehood,  simple  trust 
And  pious  hope  we  tread  in  dust  ; 
Lost  the  calm  faith  in  goodness,  —  lost 
The  baptism  of  the  Pentecost  ! 

"  Alas  !  —  the  blows  for  error  meant 
Too  oft  on  truth  itself  are  spent, 
As  through  the  false  and  vile  and  base 
Looks  forth  her  sad,  rebuking  face. 

"  Not  ours  the  Theban's  charmed  life  ; 
We  come  not  scathless  from  the  strife  ! 
The  Python's  coil  about  us  clings, 
The  trampled  Hydra  bites  and  stings  ! 

"  Meanwhile,  the  sport  of  seeming  chance, 
The  plastic  shapes  of  circumstance, 
What  might  have  been  we  fondly  guess, 
If  earlier  born,  or  tempted  less. 

"  And  thou,  in  these  wild,  troubled  days, 
Misjudged  alike  in  blame  and  praise, 
Unsought  and  undeserved  the  same 
The  skeptic's  praise,  the  bigot's  blame  ;  — 

"  I  cannot  doubt,  if  thou  hadst  been 
Among  the  highly  favored  men 
Who  walked  on  earth  with  Fdnelon, 
He  would  have  owned  thee  as  his  son  ; 

"  And,  bright  with  wings  of  cherubim 

Visibly  waving  over  him, 

Seen   through    his    life,   the    Church   had 

seemed 
All  that  its  old  confessors  dreamed." 

"I  would  have   been,"   Jean   Jacques  re 
plied, 

"  The  humblest  servant  at  his  side, 
Obscure,  unknown,  content  to  see 
How  beautiful  man's  life  may  be  ! 

"  Oh,  more  than  thrice-blest  relic,  more 
Than  solemn  rite  or  sacred  lore, 
The  holy  life  of  one  who  trod 
The  foot-marks  of  the  Christ  of  God  ! 

"  Amidst  a  blinded  world  he  saw 
The  oneness  of  the  Dual  law  ; 
That  Heaven's  sweet  peace  on  Earth  be 
gan, 
And  God  was  loved  through  love  of  man. 


"  He  lived  the  Truth  which  reconciled 
The  strong  man  Reason,  Faith,  the  child ; 
In  him  belief  and  act  were  one, 
The  homilies  of  duty  done  !  " 

So  speaking,  through  the  twilight  gray 
The  two  old  pilgrims  went  their  way. 
What  seeds  of  life  that  day  were  sown, 
The  heavenly  watchers  knew  alone. 

Time  passed,  and  Autumn  came  to  fold 
Green  Summer  in  her  brown  and  gold  ; 
Time  passed,  and  Winter's  tears  of  snow 
Dropped  on  the  grave-mound  of  Rousseau. 

"  The  tree  remaineth  where  it  fell, 
The  pained  on  earth  is  pained  in  hell  !  " 
So  priestcraft  from  its  altars  cursed 
The  mournful  doubts  its  falsehood  nursed. 

Ah  !  well  of  old  the  Psalmist  prayed, 
"  Thy  hand,  not  man's,  on  me  be  laid  ! " 
Earth  frowns  below,  Heaven  weeps  above, 
And  man  is  hate,  but  God  is  love  1 

No  Hermits  now  the  wanderer  sees, 
Nor  chapel  with  its  chestnut-trees  ; 
A  morning  dream,  a  tale  that 's  told, 
The  wave  of  change  o'er  all  has  rolled. 

Yet  lives  the  lesson  of  that  day  ; 
And  from  its  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Comes  up  a  low,  sad  whisper,  "  Make 
The    truth    thine    own,    for    truth's    own 
sake. 

"  Why  wait  to  see  in  thy  brief  span 
Its  perfect  flower  and  fruit  in  man  ? 
No  saintly  touch  can  save  ;  no  balm 
Of  healing  hath  the  martyr's  palm. 

"  Midst  soulless  forms,  and  false  pretence 
Of  spiritual  pride  and  pampered  sense, 
A  voice  saith,  '  What  is  that  to  thee  ? 
Be  true  thyself,  and  follow  Me  ! ' 

"  In  days  when  throne  and  altar  heard 
The  wanton's  wish,  the  bigot's  word, 
And  pomp  of  state  and  ritual  show 
Scarce  hid  the  loathsome  death  below,  — 

"  Midst  fawning  priests  and  courtiers  foul, 
The  losel  swarm  of  crown  and  cowl, 
White-robed  walked  FraiiQois  Fdnelon, 
Stainless  as  Uriel  in  the  sun ! 


44 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


"  Yet  in  his  time  the  stake  blazed  red, 
The  poor  were  eaten  up  like  bread  : 
Men  knew  him  not  ;  his  garment's  hem 
No  healing  virtue  had  for  them. 

"  Alas  !  no  present  saint  we  find  ; 
The  white  cymar  gleams  far  behind, 
Revealed  in  outline  vague,  sublime, 
Through  telescopic  mists  of  time  ! 

"  Trust  not  in  man  with  passing  breath, 

But  in  the  Lord,  old  Scripture  saith  ; 

The   truth  which   saves   thou   mayest   not 

blend 
With  false  professor,  faithless  friend. 

"  Search  thine  own  heart.     What  paineth 

thee 

In  others  in  thyself  may  be  ; 
All  dust  is  frail,  all  flesh  is  weak  ; 
Be  thou  the  true  man  thou  dost  seek  ! 

"  Where    now    with    pain    thou    treadest, 

trod 

The  whitest  of  the  saints  of  God  ! 
To  show  thee  where  their  feet  were  set, 
The  light  which  led  them  shineth  yet. 

"  The  footprints  of  the  life  divine, 
Which  marked  their  path,  remain  in  thine  ; 
And  that  great  Life,  transfused  in  theirs, 
Awaits  thy  faith,  thy  love,  thy  prayers  ! " 

A  lesson  which  I  well  may  heed, 
A  word  of  fitness  to  my  need  ; 
So  from  that  twilight  cool  and  gray 
Still  saith  a  voice,  or  seems  to  say. 


We  rose,  and  slowly  homeward  turned, 
While  down  the  west  the  sunset  burned  ; 
And,  in  its  light,  hill,  wood,  and  tide, 
And  human  forms  seemed  glorified. 

The  village  homes  transfigured  stood, 
And  purple  bluffs,  whose  belting  wood 
Across  the  waters  leaned  to  hold 
The  yellow  leaves  like  lamps  of  gold. 

Then   spake  my  friend  :   "  Thy  words  are 

true  ; 

Forever  old,  forever  new, 
These  home-seen  splendors  are  the  same 
Which  over  Eden's  sunsets  came. 


"  To  these   bowed  heavens   let  wood   and 

hill 

Lift  voiceless  praise  and  anthem  still  ; 
Fall,  warm  with  blessing,  over  them, 
Light  of  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 

"  Flow  on,  sweet  river,  like  the  stream 
Of  John's  Apocalyptic  dream  ! 
This  mapled  ridge  shall  Horeb  be, 
Yon  green-banked  lake  our  Galilee  ! 

"  Henceforth  my  heart  shall  sigh  no  more 
For  olden  time  and  holier  shore  ; 
God's  love  and  blessing,  then  and  there, 
Are  now  and  here  and  everywhere." 


TAULER 

TAULER,  the  preacher,  walked,  one  au 
tumn  day, 
Without   the  walls    of   Strasburg,  by   th« 

Rhine, 

Pondering  the  solemn  Miracle  of  Life  ; 
As  one  who,  wandering  in  a  starless  night, 
Feels  momently  the  jar  of  unseen  waves, 
And  hears  the  thunder  of  an  unknown  sea, 
Breaking  along  an  unimagined  shore. 

And  as  he  walked  he  prayed.     Even  the 

same 
Old  prayer  with  which,  for  half  a  score  of 

years, 
Morning,  and  noon,  and  evening,  lip  and 

heart 

Had  groaned  :  "  Have  pity  upon  me,  Lord  ! 
Thou    seest,  while    teaching  others,  I  am 

blind. 
Send  me  a  man  who  can  direct  my  steps  !  " 

Then,  as  he  mused,  he  heard  along  his 

path 

A  sound  as  of  an  old  man's  staff  among 
The  dry,  dead  linden-leaves  ;  and,  looking 

up, 
He  saw  a  stranger,  weak,  and  poor,  and 

old. 

"  Peace   be  unto  thee,  father  !  "  Tauler 

said, 
"  God  give  thee   a  good  day  ! "     The  old 

man  raised 
Slowly  his  calm  blue  eyes.     "  I  thank  thee, 

son  ; 
But  all  my  days  are  good,  and  none  are  ill." 


THE  HERMIT   OF   THE   THEBAID 


Wondering  thereat,  the  preacher  spake 

again, 
*  God  give  thee  happy  life."     The  old  man 

smiled, 
"  I  never  am  unhappy." 

Tauler  laid 
His  hand  upon  the  stranger's  coarse  gray 

sleeve  : 
"  Tell  me,  O  father,  what  thy  strange  words 

mean. 

Surely  man's  days  are  evil,  and  his  life 
Sad  as  the  grave  it  leads  :o."     "  Nay,  my 

son, 
Our  times  are  in  God's  hands,  and  all  our 

days 

Are  as  our  needs  ;  for  shadow  as  for  sun, 
For  cold  as  heat,  for  want  as  wealth,  alike 
Our  thanks  are  due,  since  that  is  best  which 

is  ; 

And  that  which  is  not,  sharing  not  His  life, 
Is  evil  only  as  devoid  of  good. 
And  for  the  happiness  of  which  I  spake, 
I  find  it  in  submission  to  His  will, 
And  calm  trust  in  the  holy  Trinity 
Of   Knowledge,   Goodness,   and   Almighty 

Power." 

Silently  wondering,  for  a  little  space, 
Stood  the  great  preacher  ;    then  he  spake 

as  one 
Who,  suddenly  grappling  with  a  haunting 

thought 
Which     long     has     followed,     whispering 

through  the  dark 
Strange    terrors,  drags    it,  shrieking,   into 

light  : 
"  What  if  God's  will  consign  thee  hence  to 

Hell  ?  " 

"  Then,"  said  the  stranger,  cheerily,  "  be 

it  so. 
What    Hell    may  be    I   know  not.;   this  I 

know,  — 

I  cannot  lose  the  presence  of  the  Lord. 
One  arm,  Humility,  takes  hold  upon 
His  dear  humanity  ;  the  other,  Love, 
Clasps  His  Divinity.     So  where  I  go 
He  goes;  and  better  fire-walled  Hell  with 

Him 
Than  golden-gated  Paradise  without." 

Tears  sprang  in  Tauler's  eyes.     A  sud 
den  light, 
Like  the  first  ray  which  fell  on  chaos,  clove 


Apart  the  shadow  wherein  he  had  walked 
Darkly  at  noon.     And,  as  the  strange  old 

man 

Went  his  slow  way,  until  his  silver  hair 
Set  like  the  white  moon  where  the  hills  of 

vine 
Slope  to  the  Rhine,  he  bowed  his  head  and 

said  : 
"  My  prayer  is  answered.     God  hath  sent 

the  man 
Long  sought,  to  teach  me,  by  his  simple 

trust, 
Wisdom  the  weary  schoolmen  never  knew." 

So,   entering  with  a  changed  and  cheer 
ful  step 

The  city  gates,  he  saw,  far  down  the  street, 
A  mighty  shadow  break  the  light  of  noon, 
Which  tracing  backward  till  its  airy  lines 
Hardened  to  stony  plinths,  he  raised  his  eyes 
O'er  broad  facade  and  lofty  pediment, 
O'er  architrave  and  frieze  and  sainted  niche, 
Up  the    stone   lace-work   chiselled  by  the 

wise 

Erwin  of  Steinbach,  dizzily  up  to  where 
In  the  noon-brightness  the  great  Minster's 

tower, 

Jewelled  with  sunbeams  on  its  mural  crown, 
Rose  like  a  visible  prayer.     "  Behold  !  "  he 

said, 
"  The  stranger's  faith  made  plain  before 

mine  eyes. 

As  yonder  tower  outstretches  to  the  earth 
The  dark  triangle  of  its  shade  alone 
When  the  clear  day  is  shining  on  its  top, 
So,  darkness  in  the  pathway  of  Man's  life 
Is  but  the  shadow  of  God's  providence, 
By  the  great  Sun  of  Wisdom  cast  thereon  ; 
And  what  is  dark  below  is  light  in  Heaven." 


THE  HERMIT  OF  THE  THEBAID 

O  STRONG,  upwelling  prayers  of  faith, 
From  inmost  founts  of  life  ye  start,  — 

The  spirit's  pulse,  the  vital  breath 
Of  soul  and  heart  ! 

From  pastoral  toil,  from  traffic's  din, 
Alone,  in  crowds,  at  home,  abroad, 

Unheard  of  man,  ye  enter  in 
The  ear  of  God. 

Ye  brook  no  forced  and  measured  tasks, 
Nor  weary  rote,  nor  formal  chains  ; 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


The  simple  heart,  that  freely  asks 
In  love,  obtains. 

For  man  the  living  temple  is  : 
The  mercy-seat  and  cherubim. 

And  all  the  holy  mysteries, 
He  bears  with  him. 

And  most  avails  the  prayer  of  love, 

Which,  wordless,  shapes  itself  in  deeds, 

And  wearies  Heaven  for  naught  above 
Our  common  needs. 

Which  brings  to  God's  all-perfect  will 
That  trust  of  His  undoubting  child 

Whereby  all  seeming  good  and  ill 
Are  reconciled. 

And,  seeking  not  for  special  signs 

Of  favor,  i?  content  to  fall 
Within  the  providence  which  shines 

And  rains  on  all. 

Alone,  the  Thebaid  hermit  leaned 
At  noontime  o'er  the  sacred  word. 

Was  it  an  angel  or  a  fiend 
Whose  voice  he  heard  ? 

It  broke  the  desert's  hush  of  awe, 
A  human  utterance,  sweet  and  mild  ; 

And,  looking  up,  the  hermit  saw 
A  little  child. 

A  child,  with  wonder-widened  eyes, 
O'erawed  and  troubled  by  the  sight 

Of  hot,  red  sands,  and  brazen  skies, 
And  anchorite. 

"  What  dost  thou  here,  poor  man  ?      No 

shade 
Of  cool,    green    palms,    nor    grass,  nor 

well, 

Nor  corn,  nor  vines."      The  hermit  said  : 
«  With  God  I  dwell. 

"Alone  with  Him  in  this  great  calm, 
I  live  not  by  the  outward  sense ; 

My  Nile  his  love,  my  sheltering  palm 
His  providence." 

The  child  gazed  round  him.    "  Does  God 
live 

Here  only  ? — where  the  desert's  rim 
Is  green  with  corn,  at  morn  and  eve, 

We  pray  to  Him. 


"  My  brother  tills  beside  the  Nile 
His  little  field  ;  beneath  the  leaves 

My  sisters  sit  and  spin,  the  while 
My  mother  weaves. 

"  And  when  the  millet's  ripe  heads  fall, 
And  all  the  bean-field  hangs  in  pod, 

My  mother  smiles,  and  says  that  all 
Are  gifts  from  God. 

"  And  when  to  share  our  evening  meal, 
She  calls  the  stranger  at  the  door, 

She  says  God  fills  the  hands  that  deal 
Food  to  the  poor." 

Adown  the  hermit's  wasted  cheeks 
Glistened  the  flow  of  human  tears  ; 

"  Dear  Lord  !  "  he  said,  "  Thy  angel  speaks, 
Thy  servant  hears." 

Within  his  arms  the  child  he  took, 

And  thought  of  home  and  life  with  men  ; 

And  all  his  pilgrim  feet  forsook 
Returned  again. 

The  palmy  shadows  cool  and  long, 

The    eyes   that    smiled    through   lavish 
locks, 

Home's  cradle-hymn  and  harvest-song, 
And  bleat  of  flocks. 

"  O  child  !  "  he  said,  "  thou  teachest  me 
There  is  no  place  where  God  is  not  ; 

That  love  will  make,  where'er  it  be, 
A  holy  spot." 

He  rose  from  off  the  desert  sand, 
And.  leaning  on  his  staff  of  thorn, 

Went  with  the  young  child  hand  in  hand, 
Like  night  with  morn. 

They  crossed  the  desert's  burning  line, 
And  heard  the  palm-tree's  rustling  fan, 

The  Nile-bird's  cry,  the  low  of  kine, 
And  voice  of  man. 

Unquestioning,  his  childish  guide 
He  followed,  as  the  small  hand  led 

To  where  a  woman,  gentle-eyed. 
Her  distaff  fed. 

She  rose,  she  clasped  her  truant  boy, 
She  thanked  the  stranger  with  her  eyes 

The  hermit  gazed  in  doubt  and  joy 
And  dumb  surprise. 


MAUD    MULLER 


47 


And  lo  !  —  with  sudden  warmth  and  light 
A  tender  memory  thrilled  his  frame  ; 

New-born,  the  world-lost  anchorite 
A  man  became. 

K  O  sister  of  El  Zara's  race, 

Behold  me  !  —  had  we  not  one  mother  ?  " 
She  gazed  into  the  stranger's  face  : 

"  Thou  art  my  brother  !  " 

«  O  kin  of  blood  !     Thy  life  of  use 
And  patient  trust  is  more  than  mine  ,• 

And  wiser  than  the  gray  recluse 
This  child  of  thine. 

"For,   taught    of    him    whom    God    hath 
sent, 

That  toil  is  praise  and  love  is  prayer, 
I  come,  life's  cares  and  pains  content 

With  thee  to  share." 

Even  as  his  foot  the  threshold  crossed 
The  hermit's  better  life  began  ; 

Its  holiest  saint  the  Thebaid  lost, 
And  found  a  man  ! 


MAUD    MULLER 

The  recollection  of  some  descendants  of  a 
Hessian  deserter  in  the  Revolutionary  war  bear 
ing1  the  name  of  Muller  doubtless  suggested 
the  somewhat  infelicitous  title  of  a  New  Eng 
land  idyl.  The  poem  had  no  real  foundation 
in  fact,  though  a  hint  of  it  may  have  been  found 
in  recalling  an  incident,  trivial  in  itself,  of  a 
journey  on  the  picturesque  Maine  seaboard 
with  my  sister  some  years  before  it  was  writ 
ten.  We  had  stopped  to  rest  our  tired  horse 
under  the  shade  of  an  apple-tree,  and  refresh 
him  with  water  from  a  little  brook  which 
rippled  through  the  stone  wall  across  the  road. 
A  very  beautiful  young  girl  in  scantest  sum 
mer  attire  was  at  work  in  the  bay-field,  and  as 
we  talked  with  her  we  noticed  that  sbe  strove 
to  hide  her  bare  feet  by  raking  hay  over  them, 
blushing  as  she  did  so,  through  the  tan  of  her 
cheek  and  neck. 

MAUD  MULLER  on  a  summer's  day 
Raked  the  meadow  sweet  with  hay. 

Beneath  her  torn  hat  glowed  the  wealth 
Of  simple  beauty  and  rustic  health 

Singing,  she  wrought,  and  her  merry  glee 
The  mock-bird  echoed  from  his  tree. 


But  when  she  glanced  to  the  far-off  town, 
White  from  its  hill-slope  looking  down, 

The  sweet  song  died,  and  a  vague  unrest 
And  a  nameless  longing  filled  her  breast,  — 

A  wish  that  she  hardly  dared  to  own, 
For  something  better  than  she  had  known. 

The  Judge  rode  slowly  down  the  lane, 
Smoothing  his  horse's  chestnut  mane. 

He  drew  his  bridle  in  the  shade 

Of  the  apple-trt  es,  to  greet  the  maid, 

And  asked  a  draught  from  the  spring  that 

flowed 
Through  the  meadow  across  the  road. 

She  stooped  where  the  cool  spring  bubbled 

up, 
And  filled  for  him  her  small  tin  cup, 

And  blushed  as  she  gave  it,  looking  down 
On  her  feet  so  bare,  and  her  tattered  gown. 

"Thanks!"  said  the  Judge  ;    "a  sweeter 

draught 
From  a  fairer  hand  was  never  quaffed." 

He  spoke  of  the  grass  arid  flowers  and  trees, 
Of  the  singing  birds  and  the  humming  bees  ; 

Then  talked  of  the  haying,  and  wondered 

whether 
The    cloud  in  the  west  would  bring  foul 

weather. 

And  Maud  forgot  her  brier-torn  gown, 
And  her  graceful  ankles  bare  and  brown  ; 

And  listened,  while  a  pleased  surprise 
Looked  from  her  long-lashed  hazel  eyes. 

At  last,  like  one  who  for  delay 
Seeks  a  vain  excuse,  he  rode  away. 

Maud  Muller  looked  and  sighed  :  "  Ah  me  ! 
That  I  the  Judge's  bride  might  be  ! 

"  He  would  dress  me  up  in  silks  so  fine, 
And  praise  and  toast  me  at  his  wine. 

"  My  father  should  wear  a  broadcloth  coat; 
My  brother  should  sail  a  painted  boat. 


48 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


"  I  'd  dress  my  mother  so  grand  and  gay, 
And  the  baby  should  have  a  new  toy  each 
day. 

"  And  I  'd  feed  the  hungry  and  clothe  the 

poor, 
And  all  should  bless  me  who  left  our  door." 

The  Jude  looked  back  as  he  climbed  the 


ge 
hill, 


And  saw  Maud  Muller  standing  still. 

"  A  form  more  fair,  a  face  more  sweet, 
Ne'er  hath  it  been  my  lot  to  meet. 

"  And  her  modest  answer  and  graceful  air 
Show  her  wise  and  good  as  she  is  fair. 

"  Would  she  were  mine,  and  I  to-day, 
Like  her,  a  harvester  of  hay  ; 

"  No  doubtful  balance  of  rights  and  wrongs, 
Nor  weary  lawyers  with  endless  tongues, 

"  But  low  of  cattle  and  song  of  birds, 
And  health  and  quiet  and  loving  words." 

But  he  thought  of  his  sisters,  proud  and 

cold, 
And  his  mother,  vain  of  her  rank  and  gold. 

So,  closing  his  heart,  the  Judge  rode  on, 
And  Maud  was  left  in  the  field  alone. 

But  the  lawyers  smiled  that  afternoon, 
When  he  hummed  in  court  an  old  love- 
tune  ; 

And  the  young  girl  mused  beside  the  well 
Till  the  rain  on  the  unraked  clover  fell. 

He  wedded  a  wife  of  richest  dower, 
Who  lived  for  fashion,  as  he  for  power. 

Yet  oft,  in  his  marble  hearth's  bright  glow, 
He  watched  a  picture  come  and  go  ; 

And  sweet  Maud  Muller's  hazel  eyes 
Looked  out  in  their  innocent  surprise. 

Oft,  when  the  wine  in  bis  glass  was  red, 
He  longed  for  the  wayside  well  instead  ; 

And  closed  his  eyes  on  his  garnished  rooms 
To  dream  of  meadows  and  clover-blooms. 


And  the  proud  man  sighed,  with  a  secret 

pain, 
"  Ah,  that  I  were  free  again  ! 

"  Free  as  when  I  rode  that  day, 

Where  the  barefoot  maiden  raked  her  hay." 

She  wedded  a  man  unlearned  and  poor, 
And  many  children  played  round  her  door 

But  care  and  sorrow,  and  childbirth  pain, 
Left  their  traces  on  heart  and  brain. 

And  oft,  when  the  summer  sun  shone  hot 
On  the  new-mown  hay  in  the  meadow  lot, 

And  she  heard  the  little  spring  brook  fall 
Over  the  roadside,  through  the  wall, 

In  the  shade  of  the  apple-tree  again 
She  saw  a  rider  draw  his  rein  ; 

And,  gazing  down  with  timid  grace, 
She  felt  his  pleased  eyes  read  her  face. 

Sometimes  her  narrow  kitchen  walls 
Stretched  away  into  stately  halls; 

The  weary  wheel  to  a  spinnet  turned, 
The  tallow  candle  an  astral  burned, 

And  for  him  who  sat  by  the  chimney  lug. 
Dozing  and  grumbling  o'er  pipe  and  mug 

A  manly  form  at  her  side  she  saw, 
And  joy  was  duty  and  love  was  law. 

Then  she  took  up  her  burden  of  life  agaic 
Saying  only,  "  It  might  have  been." 

Alas  for  maiden,  alas  for  Judge, 

For  rich  repiner  and  household  drudge  ! 

God  pity  them  both  !  and  pity  us  all, 
Who  vainly  the  dreams  of  youth  recall. 

For  of  all  sad  words  of  tongue  or  pen, 
The    saddest  are  these  :    "  It  might   have 
been  !  " 

Ah,  well  !  for  us  all  some  sweet  hope  lies 
Deeply  buried  from  human  eyes  ; 

And,  in  the  hereafter,  angels  may 
Roll  the  stone  from  its  grave  awav  -1 


MARY   GARVIN 


49 


MARY   GARVIN 

FROM  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna,  from 

the  lake  that  never  fails, 
Falls  the  Saco  in  the  green  lap  of  Con  way's 

intervales ; 
There,  in    wild   and   virgin   freshness,    its 

waters  foam  and  flow, 
A.S  when    Darby  Field  first  saw  them,  two 

hundred  years  ago. 

But,  vexed  in  all  its  seaward  course   with 

bridges,  dams,  and  mills, 
How  changed  is  Saco's  stream,  how  lost  its 

freedom  of  the  hills, 
Since  travelled  Jocelyn,  factor  Vines,  and 

stately  Champernoon 
Heard  on  its  banks  the  gray  wolf's  howl, 

the  trumpet  of  the  loon  ! 

With  smoking  axle  hot  with  speed,  with 
steeds  of  fire  and  steam, 

Wide-waked  To-day  leaves  Yesterday  be 
hind  him  like  a  dream. 

Still,  from  the  hurrying  train  of  Life,  fly 
backward  far  and  fast 

The  milestones  of  the  fathers,  the  land 
marks  of  the  past. 

But  human  hearts  remain  unchanged  :  the 

sorrow  and  the  sin, 
The  loves  and  hopes  and  fears  of  old,  are  to 

our  own  akin  ; 
And  if,  in  tales  our  fathers  told,  the  songs 

our  mothers  sung, 
Tradition  wears  a  snowy  beard,  Romance 

is  always  young. 

O  sharp-lined  man  of  traffic,  on  Saco's 
banks  to-day  I 

O  mill-girl  watching  late  and  long  the 
shuttle's  restless  play  ! 

Let,  for  the  once,  a  listening  ear  the  work 
ing  hand  beguile, 

And  lend  my  old  Provincial  tale,  as  suits, 
a  tear  or  smile  ! 


The  evening  gun  had  sounded  from  gray 

Fort  Mary;s  walls  ; 
Through    the    forest,    like    a  wild   beast, 

roared    and     plunged     the     Saco's 

falls. 


And  westward  on  the  sea-wind,  that  damp 

and  gusty  grew, 
Over  cedars  darkening  inland  the  smokes 

of  Spurwink  blew. 

On  the  hearth  of  Farmer  Garvin,  blazed 

the  crackling  walnut  log  ; 
Right  and  left  sat  dame  and  goodman,  and 

between  them  lay  the  dog, 

Head  on  paws,  and  tail  slow  wagging,  and 

beside  him  on  her  mat, 
Sitting  drowsy  in  the  firelight,  winked  and 

purred  the  mottled  cat. 

"Twenty  years  !  "  said  Goodman  Garvin, 
speaking  sadly,  under  breath, 

And  his  gray  head  slowly  shaking,  as  one 
who  speaks  of  death. 

The  goodwife  dropped  her  needles  :  "  It  is 

twenty  years  to-day, 
Since  the  Indians  fell  on  Saco,  and  stole  our 

child  away." 

Then  they  sank  into  the  silence,  for  each 

knew  the  other's  thought, 
Of  a  great  and  common  sorrow,  and  words 

were  needed  not. 

"  Who  knocks  ?  "  cried  Goodman  Garvin. 

The  door  was  open  thrown  ; 
On  two  strangers,  man  and  maiden,  cloaked 

and  furred,  the  firelight  shone. 

One  with  courteous  gesture  lifted  the  bear 
skin  from  his  head  ; 

"  Lives  here  Elkanah  Garvin  ?  "  "1  am 
he,"  the  goodman  said. 

"  Sit  ye  down,  and  dry  and  warm  ye,  for 
the  night  is  chill  with  rain  " 

And  the  goodwife  drew  the  settle,  and 
stirred  the  fire  amain. 

The   maid    unclasped   her  cloak-hood,  the 

firelight  glistened  fair 
In  her  large,  moist  eyes,  and  over  soft  folds 

of  dark  brown  hair. 

Dame    Garvin   looked   upon    her  :    "  It   is 

Mary's  self  I  see  ! 
Dear     heart  !  "      she     cried,     "  now     tell 

me,    has   my   child   come    back   to 

me?" 


NARRATIVE   AND  LEGENDARY   POEMS 


•'  My    name    indeed    is    Mary,"    said    the 

stranger  sobbing  wild  ; 
"Will  you    be    to   me   a  mother?     I  am 

Mary  Garvin's  child  ! 

"  She  sleeps  by  wooded  Simcoe,  but  on  her 

dying  day 
She  bade  my  father  take  me  to  her  kinsfolk 

far  away. 

"  And  when  the  priest  besought  her  to  do 

me  no  such  wrong, 
She  said.  '  May  God  forgive  me  !     I  have 

closed  my  heart  too  long. 

" '  When  I  hid  me  from  my  father,  and  shut 

out  my  mother's  call, 
I  sinned  against  those  dear  ones,  and  the 

Father  of  us  all. 

"'Christ's  love  rebukes  no  home -love, 
breaks  no  tie  of  kin  apart  ; 

Better  heresy  in  doctrine,  than  heresy  of 
heart. 

" '  Tell  me  not  the  Church  must  cen 
sure  :  she  who  wept  the  Cross  be 
side 

Never  made  her  own  flesh  strangers,  nor 
the  claims  of  blood  denied  ; 

" « And  if  she  who  wronged  her  parents, 
with  her  child  atones  to  them, 

Earthly  daughter,  Heavenly  Mother  !  thou 
at  least  wilt  not  condemn  ! ' 

"  So,  upon  her  death-bed  lying,  my  blessed 

mother  spake  ; 
As  we  come  to  do  her  bidding,  so  receive 

us  for  her  sake." 

"  God  be  praised  !  "  said  Goodwife  Garvin, 
"  He  taketh,  and  He  gives  ; 

He  woundeth,  but  He  healeth  ;  in  her 
child  our  daughter  lives  !  " 

"  Amen  !  "  the  old  man  answered,   as   he 

brushed  a  tear  away, 
And,  kneeling  by  his  hearthstone,  said,  with 

reverence,  "  Let  us  pray." 

All  its  Oriental  symbols,  and  its  Hebrew 

paraphrase, 
Warm  with  earnest  life  and  feeling,  rose 

his  prayer  of  love  and  praise. 


But   he   started   at  beholding,  as  he  rose 

from  off  his  knee, 
The  stranger  cross  his  forehead  with  the 

sign  of  Papistrie. 

"  What  is  this  ? "  cried  Farmer  Garvin, 
"  Is  an  English  Christian's  home 

A  chapel  or  a  mass-house,  that  you  make 
the  sign  of  Rome  ?  " 

Then  the  young  girl  knelt  beside  him,  kissed 
his  trembling  hand,  and  cried  : 

"  Oh,  forbear  to  chide  my  father  ;  in  that 
faith  my  mother  died  ! 

"  On  her  wooden  cross  at  Simcoe  the  dews 

and  sunshine  fall, 
As  they  fall  on  Spurwink's  graveyard  ;  and 

the  dear  God  watches  all !  " 

The  old   man  stroked  the   fair  head  that 

rested  on  his  knee  ; 
"Your  words,   dear  child,"    he  answered, 

"  are  God's  rebuke  to  me. 

"  Creed  and  rite  perchance  may  differ,  yet 
our  faith  and  hope  be  one. 

Let  me  be  your  father's  father,  let  him  be 
to  me  a  son. " 

When  the  horn,  on  Sabbath  morning, 
through  the  still  and  frosty  air, 

From  Spurwink,  Pool,  and  Black  Point, 
called  to  sermon  and  to  prayer, 

To  the  goodly  house  of  worship,  where,  in 

order  due  and  fit, 
As   by  public  vote    directed,  classed   and 

ranked  the  people  sit  ; 

Mistress  first  and  good  wife  after,  clerkly 

squire  before  the  clown, 
From  the  brave  coat,  lace-embroidered,  to 

the  gray  frock,  shading  down  ; 

From  the  pulpit  read  the  preacher,  "  Good- 
man  Garvin  and  his  wife 

Fain  would  thank  the  Lord,  whose  kind 
ness  has  followed  them  through 
life, 

"  For  the  great  and  crowning  mercy,  that 
their  daughter,  from  the  wild, 

Where  she  rests  (they  hope  in  God's  peace), 
has  sent  to  them  her  child  ; 


THE   RANGER 


"And  the  prayers  of  all  God's  people  they 

ask,  that  they  may  prove 
Not  unworthy,  through  their  weakness,  of 

such  special  proof  of  love." 

As  the  preacher  prayed,  uprising,  the  aged 

couple  stood, 
And  the  fair  Canadian  also,  in  her  modest 

maidenhood. 

Thought  the  elders,  grave  and  doubting, 
"  She  is  Papist  born  and  bred  ;  " 

Thought  the  young  men,  "  T  is  an  angel  in 
Mary  Garvin's  stead  !  " 

THE   RANGER 

Originally  published  as   Martha    Mason;  a 
Song  of  the  Old  French  War. 

ROBERT  RAWLIN  !  —  Frosts  were  falling 
When  the  ranger's  horn  was  calling 

Through  the  woods  to  Canada. 
Gone  the  winter's  sleet  and  snowing, 
Gone  the  spring-time's  bud  and  blowing, 
Gone  the  summer's  harvest  mowing, 

And  again  the  fields  are  gray. 

Yet  away,  he  's  away  ! 
Faint  and  fainter  hope  is  growing 

In  the  hearts  that  mourn  his  stay. 

Where  the  lion,  crouching  high  on 
Abraham's  rock  with  teeth  of  iron, 

Glares  o'er  wood  and  wave  away, 
Faintly  thence,  as  pines  far  sighing, 
Or  as  thunder  spent  and  dying, 
Come  the  challenge  and  replying, 

Come  the  sounds  of  flight  and  fray. 

Well-a-day  !     Hope  and  pray  ! 
Some  are  living,  some  are  lying 

In  their  red  graves  far  away. 

Straggling  rangers,  worn  with  dangers, 
Homeward  faring,  weary  strangers 

Pass  the  farm-gate  on  their  way  ; 
Tidings  of  the  dead  and  living, 
Forest  march  and  ambush,  giving, 
Till  the  maidens  leave  their  weaving, 

And  the  lads  forget  their  play. 

"  Still  away,  still  away  !  " 
Sighs  a  sad  one,  sick  with  grieving, 

"  Why  does  Robert  still  delay  !  " 

Nowhere  fairer,  sweeter,  rarer, 
Does  the  golden-locked  fruit  bearer 


Through  his  painted  woodlands  stray, 
Than  where  hillside  oaks  and  beeches 
Overlook  the  long,  blue  reaches, 
Silver  coves  and  pebbled  beaches, 

And  green  isles  of  Casco  Bay  ; 

Nowhere  day,  for  delay, 
With  a  tenderer  look  beseeches, 

"  Let  me  with  my  charmed  earth  stay/* 

On  the  grain- lands  of  the  mainlands 
Stands  the  serried  corn  like  train-bands, 

Plume  and  pennon  rustling  gay  ; 
Out  at  sea,  the  islands  wooded, 
Silver  birches,  golden-hooded, 
Set  with  maples,  crimson-blooded, 

White  sea-foam  and  sand-hills  gray, 

Stretch  away,  far  away, 
Dim  and  dreamy,  over-brooded 

By  the  hazy  autumn  day. 

Gayly  chattering  to  the  clattering 

Of  the  brown  nuts  downward  pattering, 

Leap  the  squirrels,  red  and  gray. 
On  the  grass-land,  on  the  fallow, 
Drop  the  apples,  red  and  yellow  ; 
Drop  the  russet  pears  and  mellow, 

Drop  the  red  leaves  all  the  day. 

And  away,  swift  away, 
Sun  and  cloud,  o'er  hill  and  hollow 

Chasing,  weave  their  web  of  play. 

"  Martha  Mason,  Martha  Mason, 
Prithee  tell  us  of  the  reason 

Why  you  mope  at  home  to-day  : 
Surely  smiling  is  not  sinning  ; 
Leave  your  quilling,  leave  your  spinning ; 
What  is  all  your  store  of  linen, 

If  your  heart  is  never  gay  ? 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Never  yet  did  sad  beginning 

Make  the  task  of  life  a  play." 

Overbending  till  she  's  blending 
With  the  flaxen  skein  she  's  tending 

Pale  brown  tresses  smoothed  away 
From  her  face  of  patient  sorrow, 
Sits  she,  seeking  but  to  borrow, 
From  the  trembling  hope  of  morrow, 

Solace  for  the  weary  day. 

"  Go  your  way,  laugh  and  play  ; 
Unto  Him  who  heeds  the  sparrow 

And  the  lily,  let  me  pray." 

"  With  our  rally  rings  the  valley,  — 
Join  us  !  "  cried  the  blue-eyed  Nelly  : 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY    POEMS 


"  Join  us  !  "  cried  the  laughing  May, 
"  To  the  beach  we  all  are  going, 
And,  to  save  the  task  of  rowing, 
West  by  north  the  wind  is  blowing, 

Blowing  briskly  down  the  bay  ! 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
Time  and  tide  are  swiftly  flowing, 

Let  us  take  them  while  we  may  ! 

"  Never  tell  us  that  you  '11  fail  us, 
Where  the  purple  beach-plum  mellows 

On  the  bluffs  so  wild  and  gray. 
Hasten,  for  the  oars  are  falling  ; 
Hark,  our  merry  mates  are  calling  ; 
Time  it  is  that  we  were  all  in, 

Singing  tideward  down  the  bay  ! " 

"  Nay,  nay,  let  me  stay  ; 
Sore  and  sad  for  Robert  Rawlin 

Is  my  heart,"  she  said,  "  to-day." 

"  Vain  your  calling  for  Rob  Rawlin  ! 
Some  red  squaw  his  moose-meat 's  broiling, 

Or  some  French  lass,  singing  gay  ; 
Just  forget  as  he  's  forgetting  ; 
What  avails  a  life  of  fretting  ? 
If  some  stars  must  needs  be  setting, 

Others  rise  as  good  as  they." 

"  Cease,  I  pray  ;  go  your  way  !  " 
Martha  cries,  her  eyelids  wetting  ; 

"  Foul  and  false  the  words  you  say  ! " 

"  Martha  Mason,  hear  to  reason  ! 
Prithee,  put  a  kinder  face  on  !  " 

"  Cease  to  vex  me,"  did  she  say ; 
"  Better  at  his  side  be  lying, 
With  the  mournful  pine-trees  sighing, 
And  the  wild  birds  o'er  us  crying, 

Than  to  doubt  like  mine  a  prey  ; 

While  away,  far  away, 
Turns  my  heart,  forever  trying 

Some  new  hope  for  each  new  day. 

"  When  the  shadows  veil  the  meadows, 
And  the  sunset's  golden  ladders 

Sink  from  twilight's  walls  of  gray,  — 
From  the  window  of  my  dreaming, 
I  can  see  his  sickle  gleaming, 
Cheery-voiced,  can  hear  him  teaming 

Down  the  locust-shaded  way  ; 

But  away,  swift  away, 
Fades  the  fond,  delusive  seeming, 

And  I  kneel  again  to  pray. 

"  When  the  growing  dawn  is  showing, 
And  the  barn-yard  cock  is  crowing, 


And  the  horned  moon  pales  away  : 
From  a  dream  of  him  awaking, 
Every  sound  my  heart  is  making 
Seems  a  footstep  of  his  taking  ; 

Then  I  hush  the  thought,  and  say, 

4  Nay,  nay,  he  's  away  ! ' 
Ah  !  my  heart,  my  heart  is  breaking 

For  the  dear  one  far  away." 

Look  up,  Martha  !  worn  and  swarthy, 
Glows  a  face  of  manhood  worthy  : 

"  Robert !  "  «  Martha  !  "  all  they  say. 
O'er  went  wheel  and  reel  together, 
Little  cared  the  owner  whither  ; 
Heart  of  lead  is  heart  of  feather, 

Noon  of  night  is  noon  of  day  ! 

Come  away,  come  away  ! 
When  such  lovers  meet  each  other, 

Why  should  prying  idlers  stay  ? 

Quench  the  timber's  fallen  embers, 
Quench  the  red  leaves  in  December's 

Hoary  rime  and  chilly  spray. 
But  the  hearth  shall  kindle  clearer, 
Household  welcomes  sound  sincerer, 
Heart  to  loving  heart  draw  nearer, 

When  the  bridal  bells  shall  say  : 

"  Hope  and  pray,  trust  alway  ; 
Life  is  sweeter,  love  is  dearer, 

For  the  trial  and  delay  !  " 


THE    GARRISON    OF    CAPE   ANN 

FROM  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far 

beneath  the  tent-like  span 
Of  the  sky,  I  see  the  white  gleam  of  the 

headland  of  Cape  Ann. 
Well  I  know  its  coves  and  beaches  to  the 

ebb-tide  glimmering  down, 
And  the  white-walled  hamlet  children  of 

its  ancient  fishing-town. 

Long  has  passed  the  summer  morning,  and 

its  memory  waxes  old, 
When  along  yon  breezy  headlands  with  a 

pleasant  friend  I  strolled. 
Ah  !  the  autumn  sun  is   shining,  and  the 

ocean  wind  blows  cool, 
And  the  golden-rod  and  aster  bloom  around 

thy  grave,  Rantoul ! 

With  the  memory  of  that  morning  by  the 
summer  sea  I  blend 


THE   GARRISON   OF   CAPE   ANN 


S3 


A  wild  and  wondrous  story,  by  the  younger 

Mather  penned, 
la  that  quaint  Magnolia   Christi,  with  all 

strange  and  marvellous  things, 
Heaped  up  huge  and  undigested,  like  the 

chaos  Ovid  sings. 

I)eai  to  me  these  far,  faint  glimpses  of  the 

dual  life  of  old, 
Inward,  grand  with  awe  and    reverence  ; 

outward,     mean     and    coarse     and 

cold  ; 
Gleams  of  mystic  beauty  playing  over  dull 

and  vulgar  clay, 
Golden-threaded  fancies  weaving  in  a  web 

of  hodden  gray. 

The     great    eventful    Present    hides    the 

Past  ;  but  through  the  din 
Of  its  loud  life  hints  and  echoes  from  the 

lite  behind  steal  in  ; 
And  the  lore  of  home  and  fireside,  and  the 

legendary  rhyme, 
Make  the  task  of  duty  lighter  which  the 

true  man  owes  his  time. 

So,  with  something  of  the  feeling  which 
the  Covenanter  knew, 

When  with  pious  ,;hisel  wandering  Scot 
land's  moorland  graveyards  through, 

From  the  graves  of  old  traditions  I  part 
the  blackberry-vines, 

Wipe  the  moss  from  off  the  headstones, 
and  retouch  the  faded  lines. 


Where  the  sea  -  waves  back  and  for 
ward,  hoarse  with  rolling  pebbles, 
ran, 

The  garrison-house  stood  watching  on  the 
gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann  ; 

On  its  windy  site  uplifting  gabled  roof  and 
palisade, 

And  rough  walls  of  unhewn  timber  with 
the  moonlight  overlaid. 

On  his  slow  round  walked  the  sentry,  south 

and  eastward  looking  forth 
O'er  a  rude  and   broken   coast-line,   white 

with  breakers  stretching  north,  — 
Wood  and  rock    and    gleaming  sand-drift, 

jagged  capes,  with  bush  and  tree, 
Leaning  inland  from    the   smiting  of  the 

wild  and  gusty  sea 


Before  the  deep-mouthed  chimney,  dimly 

lit  by  dying  brands, 
Twenty  soldiers  sat  and  waited,  with  their 

muskets  in  their  hands  ; 
On  the  rough-hewn  oaken  table  the  venison 

haunch  was  shared, 
And   the    pewter   tankard   circled    slowly 

round  from  beard  to  beard. 

Long    they    sat    and    talked    together,  — 

talked  of  wizards  Satan-sold  ; 
Of  all   ghostly  sights  and    noises,  —  signs 

and  wonders  manifold  ; 
Of  the  spectre-ship  of  Salem,  with  the  dead 

men  in  her  shrouds, 
Sailing  sheer  above  the  water,  in  the  loom  of 

morning  clouds ; 

Of   the    marvellous    valley  hidden  in   the 

depths  of  Gloucester  woods, 
Full    of   plants  that  love   the    summer,  — 

blooms  of  warmer  latitudes  ; 
Where  the  Arctic  birch  is  braided  by  the 

tropic's  flowery   vines, 
And  the  white  magnolia-blossoms  star  the 

twilight  of  the  pines  ! 

But  their  voices  sank   yet  lower,  sank  to 

husky  tones  of  fear, 
As   they   spake  of   present    tokens  of  the 

powers  of  evil  near  ;  — 
Of  a  spectral  host,  defying  stroke  of  steel 

and  aim  of  gun  ; 
Never  yet  was  ball  to    slay   them    in  the 

mould  of  mortals  run  ! 

Thrice,  with  plumes  and  flowing  scalp-locks, 
from  the  midnight  wood  they 
came,  — 

Thrice  around  the  block-house  march 
ing,  met,  unharmed,  its  volleyed 
flame  ; 

Then,  with  mocking  laugh  and  gesture, 
sunk  in  earth  or  lost  in  air, 

All  the  ghostly  wonder  vanished,  and  the 
moonlit  sands  lay  bare. 

Midnight  came  ;  from  out  the  forest  moved 

a  dusky  mass  that  soon 
Grew   to    warriors,   plumed   and   painted, 

grimly  marching  in  the  moon. 
"Ghosts    or   witches,"   said    the    captain, 

«  thus  I  foil  the  Evil  One  ! " 
And  he   rammed   a  silver  button,  from  his 

doublet,  down  his  gun. 


54 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY    POEMS 


Once  again  the  spectral  horror  moved  the 

guarded  wall  about ; 
Once  again  the  levelled  muskets  through 

the  palisades  flashed  out, 
With  that  deadly  aim  the  squirrel  on  his 

tree-top  might  not  shun, 
Nor  the  beach-bird  seaward  flying  with  his 

slant  wing  to  the  sun. 

Like  the  idle  rain  of  summer  sped  the  harm 
less  shower  of  lead. 

With  a  laugh  of  fierce  derision,  once  again 
the  phantoms  fled  ; 

Once  again,  without  a  shadow  on  the  sands 
the  moonlight  lay, 

And  the  white  smoke  curling  through  it 
drifted  slowly  down  the  bay  ! 

"  God    preserve   us  !  "   said   the    captain  ; 

"  never  mortal  foes  were  there  ; 
They   have    vanished    with   their     leader, 

Prince  and  Power  of  the  air  ! 
Lay  aside  your  useless  weapons  ;  skill  and 

prowess  naught  avail  ; 
They  who  do  the  Devil's  service  wear  their 

master's  coat  of  mail !  " 

So  the  night  grew  near  to  cock-crow,  when 
again  a  warning  call 

Roused  the  score  of  weary  soldiers  watch 
ing  round  the  dusky  hall  : 

And  they  looked  to  flint  and  priming,  and 
they  longed  for  break  of  day  ; 

But  the  captain  closed  his  Bible  :  "  Let  us 
cease  from  man,  and  pray  !  " 

To  the  men  who  went  before  us,  all  the  un 
seen  powers  seemed  near, 

And  their  steadfast  strength  of  courage 
struck  its  roots  in  holy  fear. 

Every  hand  forsook  the  musket,  every  head 
was  bowed  and  bare, 

Erery  stout  knee  pressed  the  flag-stones,  as 
the  captain  led  in  prayer. 

Ceased  thereat  the  mystic  marching  of  the 

spectres  round  the  wall, 
But  a  sound  abhorred,  unearthly,  smote  the 

ears  and  hearts  of  all,  — 
Howls  of  rage  and  shrieks  of  anguish  ! 

Never  after  mortal  man 
Saw  the  ghostly  leaguers  marching  round 

the  block-house  of  Cape  Ann. 

So  to  us  who  walk  in  summer  through  the 
cool  and  sea-biowu  town, 


From  the  childhood  of  its  people  comes  the 

solemn  legend  down. 
Not  in  vain  the  ancient  fiction,  in  whose 

moral  lives  the  youth 
And  the  fitness  and  the  freshness  of  an  un- 

decaying  truth. 

Soon  or  late  to  all  our  dwellings  come  the 

spectres  of  the  mind, 
Doubts  and  fears  and  dread  forebodings, 

in  the  darkness  undefined  ; 
Round  us  throng  the  grim  projections  of  the 

heart  and  of  the  brain, 
And  our  pride  of  strength  is  weakness,  and 

the  cunning  hand  is  vain. 

In  the  dark  we  cry  like  children  ;  and  no 

answer  from  on  high 
Breaks  the  crystal  spheres  of  silence,  and 

no  white  wings  downward  fly  ; 
But  the  heavenly  help  we  pray  for  comes  to 

faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
And  our  prayers  themselves  drive  backward 

all  the  spirits  of  the  night  ! 


THE  GIFT  OF  TRITEMIUS 

TRITEMIUS  of  Herbipolis,  one  day, 
While  kneeling  at  the  altar's  foot  to  pray 
Alone  with  God,  as  was  his  pious  choice, 
Heard  from  without  a  miserable  voice, 
A  sound  which  seemed  of  all  sad  things  to 

tell, 
As  of  a  lost  soul  crying  out  of  hell. 

Thereat   the    Abbot    paused  ;    the    chain 

whereby 
His  thoughts  went  upward  broken  by  that 

cry  ; 

And,  looking  from  the  casement,  saw  below 
A  wretched  woman,  with  gray  hair  a-flow, 
And  withered  hands  held  up  tc  him,  who 

cried 
For  alms  as  one  who  might  not  be  denied. 

She  cried,  "  For  the  dear  love  of  Him  who 

gave 
His  life  for  ours,  my  child  from  bondage 

save,  — 
My  beautiful,  brave  first-born,  chained  with 

slaves 
In  the  Moor's  galley,  where  the  sun-smit 

waves 
Lap  the  white  walls  of  Tunis  !  "  — <l  What 

I  can 


SKIPPER   IRESON'S    RIDE 


55 


I  give,"  Tritemius  said,  "my  prayers."  — 
"  O  man 

Of  God  !  "  she  cried,  for  grief  had  made 
her  bold, 

"  Mock  me  not  thus  ;  I  ask  not  prayers, 
but  gold. 

Words  will  not  serve  me,  alms  alone  suffice  ; 

Even  while  I  speak  perchance  my  first 
born  dies." 

"  Woman  !  "  Tritemius  answered,  "  from 

our  door 

None  go  unfed,  hence  are  we  always  poor  ; 
A  single  soldo  is  our  only  store. 
Thou   hast  our   prayers  ;  —  what  can  we 

give  thee  more  ?  " 

"  Give  me,"  she  said,  "  the  silver  candle 
sticks 

On  either  side  of  the  great  crucifix. 

God  well  may  spare  them  on  His  errands 
sped, 

Or  He  can  give  you  golden  ones  instead." 

Then    spake     Tritemius,    "Even    as    thy 

word, 
Woman,    so  be   it !     (Our  most    gracious 

Lord, 

Who  loveth  mercy  more  than  sacrifice, 
Pardon  me  if  a  human  soul  I  prize 
Above  the  gifts  upon  his  altar  piled  !) 
Take   what   thou  askest,  and   redeem    thy 

child." 

But  his  hand  trembled  as  the  holy  alms 
He  placed  within  the  beggar's  eager  palms  ; 
And  as  she  vanished  down  the  linden  shade, 
He    bowed    his   head  and    for  forgiveness 
prayed. 

So  the  day  passed,  and  when  the  twilight 

came 

He  woke  to  find  the  chapel  all  aflame, 
And,  dumb  with    grateful  wonder,  to  be- 

hoU 
Upon  the  altar  candlesticks  of  gold  ! 


SKIPPER    IRESON'S    RIDE 

In  the  valuable  and  carefully  prepared  His 
tory  of  Marblehead,  published  in  1879  by 
Samuel  Roads,  Jr.,  it  is  stated  that  the  crew 
of  Captain  Ireson,  rather  than  himself,  were 
responsible  for  the  abandonment  of  the  dis 


abled  vessel.  To  screen  themselves  they 
charged  their  captain  with  the  crime  In  view 
of  this  the  writer  of  the  ballad  addressed  the 
following  letter  to  the  historian  :  — 

OAK  KNOLL,  DANVERS,  5  mo.  18,  1880. 

MY  DEAR  FRIEND  ;  I  heartily  thank  thee 
for  a  copy  of  thy  History  of  Marb/.ehead,  I 
have  read  it  with  great  interest  and  think  good 
use  has  been  made  of  the  abundant  material. 
No  town  in  Essex  County  has  a  record  more 
honorable  than  Marblehead  ;  no  one  has  done 
more  to  develop  the  industrial  interests  of  our 
New  England  seaboard,  and  certainly  none 
have  given  such  evidence  of  self-sacrificing 
patriotism.  I  am  glad  the  story  of  it  has  been 
at  last  told,  and  told  so  well.  I  have  now  no 
doubt  that  thy  version  of  Skipper  Ireson's 
ride  is  the  correct  one.  My  verse  was  founded 
solely  on  a  fragment  of  rhyme  which  I  heard 
from  one  of  my  early  schoolmates,  a  native  of 
Marblehead. 

I  supposed  the  story  to  which  it  referred  dated 
back  at  least  a  century.  I  knew  nothing  of 
the  participators,  and  the  narrative  of  the  ballad 
was  pure  fancy.  I  am  glad  for  the  sake  of 
truth  and  justice  that  tbe  real  facts  are  given  in 
thy  book.  I  certainly  would  not  knowingly  do 
injustice  to  any  one,  dead  or  living. 
I  am  very  truly  thy  friend, 

JOHN  G.  WHITTIEK. 

OF  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Told  in  story  or  sung  in  rhyme,  — 
On  Apuleius's  Golden  Ass, 
Or  oue-eyed  Calender's  horse  of  brass, 
Witch  astride  of  a  human  back, 
Islam's  prophet  on  Al-Borsik,  — 
The  strangest  ride  that  ever  was  sped 
Was  Ireson's,  out  from  Marblehead  ! 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Body  of  turkey,  head  of  owl, 
Wings  a-droop  like  a  rained-on  fowl, 
Feathered  and  ruffled  in  every  part, 
Skipper  Ireson  stood  in  the  cart. 
Scores  of  women,  old  and  young, 
Strong  of  muscle,  and  glib  of  tongue, 
Pushed  and  pulled  up  the  rocky  lane, 
Shouting  and  singing  the  shrill  refrain  : 
"  Here  's    Find    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 

horrt, 
Torr'd    an'    futherr'd    an'    corr'd    in    a 

corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  ! " 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY  POEMS 


Wrinkled  scolds  with  hands  on  hips, 

Girls  in  bloom  of  cheek  and  lips, 

Wild-eyed,  free-limbed,  such  as  chase 

Bacchus  round  some  antique  vase, 

Brief  of  skirt,  with  ankles  bare, 

Loose  of  kerchief  and  loose  of  hair, 

With  conch-shells  blowing  and  fish-horns' 

twang, 
Over  and  over  the  Msenads  sang  : 

"  Here 's    Flud    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 

horrt, 

Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 

Small  pity  for  him  !  —  He  sailed  away 
From  a  leaking  ship  in  Chaleur  Bay,  — 
Sailed  away  from  a  sinking  wreck, 
With  his  own  town's-people  on  her  deck  ! 
"  Lay  by  !  lay  by  !  "  they  called  to  him. 
Back  he  answered,  "  Sink  or  swim  ! 
Brag  of  your  catch  of  fish  again  !  " 
And   off   he  sailed    through    the    fog  and 

rain  ! 

Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in   a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Fathoms  deep  in  dark  Chaleur 
That  wreck  shall  lie  forevermore. 
Mother  and  sister,  wife  and  maid, 
Looked  from  the  rocks  of  Marblehead 
Over  the  moaning  and  rainy  sea,  — 
Looked    for   the    coming   that    might   not 

be  ! 
What  did   the  winds    and   the    sea  -  birds 

say 

Of  the  cruel  captain  who  sailed  away  ?  — 
Old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Through  the  street,  on  either  side, 
Up  flew  windows,  doors  swung  wide  ; 
Sharp-tongued  spinsters,  old  wives  gray, 
Treble  lent  the  fish-horn's  bray. 
Sea- worn  grandsires,  cripple-bound, 
Hulks  of  old  sailors  run  aground, 
Shook  head,  and  fist,  and  hat,  and  cane, 
And   cracked  with   curses  the  hoarse    re 
frain  : 

"  Here  's  Flud  Oirson,  fur  his  horrd  horrt, 
Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  !  " 


Sweetly  along  the  Salem  road 
Bloom  of  orchard  and  lilac  showed. 
Little  the  wicked  skipper  knew 
Of  the  fields  so  green  and  the  sky  so  blue. 
Riding  there  in  his  sorry  trim, 
Like  an  Indian  idol  glum  and  grim, 
Scarcely  he  seemed  the  sound  to  hear 
Of  voices  shouting,  far  and  near  : 

"Here's    Flud    Oirson,    fur    his    horrd 
horrt, 

Torr'd  an'  futherr'd  an'  corr'd  in  a  corrt 
By  the  women  o'  Morble'ead  ! " 

"  Hear  me,  neighbors  !  "  at  last  he  cried,  —  • 
"  What  to  me  is  this  noisy  ride  ? 
What  is  the  shame  that  clothes  the  skin 
To  the  nameless  horror  that  lives  within  ? 
Waking  or  sleeping,  I  see  a  wreck, 
And  hear  a  cry  from  a  reeling  deck  ! 
Hate  me  and  curse  me,  —  I  only  dread 
The  hand  of  God  and  the  face  of  the  dead  !  " 
Said  old  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 

Then  the  wife  of  the  skipper  lost  at  sea 
Said,  "  God  has  touched  him  !  why  should 

we  ! " 

Said  an  old  wife  mourning  her  only  son, 
"  Cut  the  rogue's  tether  and  let  him  run  !  " 
So  with  soft  relentings  and  rude  excuse, 
Half  scorn,  half  pity,  they  cut  him  loose, 
And  gave  him  a  cloak  to  hide  him  in, 
And  left   him  alone    with    his  shame  and 

sin. 

Poor  Floyd  Ireson,  for  his  hard  heart, 
Tarred  and  feathered  and  carried  in  a 

cart 
By  the  women  of  Marblehead  ! 


THE    SYCAMORES 

Hugh  Tallant  was  the  first  Irish  resident  of 
Haverhill,  Mass.  He  planted  the  buttonwood 
trees  on  the  bank  of  the  river  below  the  village 
in  the  early  part  of  the  seventeenth  century. 
Unfortunately  this  noble  avenue  is  now 
destroyed. 

IN  the  outskirts  of  the  village, 
On  the  river's  winding  shores, 

Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 
Stand  the  ancient  sycamores. 


THE   SYCAMORES 


One  long  century  hath  been  numbered, 

And  another  half-way  told, 
Since  the  rustic  Irish  gleeman 

Broke  for  them  the  virgin  mould. 

Deftly  set  to  Celtic  music, 

At  his  violin's  sound  they  grew, 

Through  the  moonlit  eves  of  summer, 
Making  Amphion's  fable  true. 

Rise  again,  thou  poor  Hugh  Tallant ! 

Pass  in  jerkin  green  along, 
With  thy  eyes  brimful  of  laughter, 

And  thy  mouth  as  full  of  song. 

Pioneer  of  Erin's  outcasts, 
With  his  fiddle  and  his  pack  ; 

Little  dreamed  the  village  Saxons 
Of  the  myriads  at  his  buck. 

How  he  wrought  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Delved  by  day  and  sang  by  night, 

With  a  hand  that  never  wearied, 
And  a  heart  forever  light,  — 

Still  the  gay  tradition  mingles 
With  a  record  grave  and  drear, 

Like  the  rollic  air  of  Cluny 

With  the  solemn  march  of  Mear. 

When  the  box-tree,  white  with  blossoms, 
Made  the  sweet  May  woodlands  glad, 

And  the  Aronia  by  the  river 
Lighted  up  the  swarming  shad, 

And  the  bulging  nets  swept  shoreward, 
With  their  silver-sided  haul, 

Midst  the  shouts  of  dripping  fishers, 
He  was  merriest  of  them  all. 

When,  among  the  jovial  huskers, 
Love  stole  in  at  Labor's  side, 

With  the  lusty  airs  of  England 
Soft  his  Celtic  measures  vied. 

Songs  of  love  and  wailing  lyke-wake, 
And  the  merry  fair's  carouse  ; 

Of  the  wild  Red  Fox  of  Erin 

And  the  Woman  of  Three  Cows, 

By  the  blazing  hearths  of  winter, 
Pleasant  seemed  his  simple  tales, 

Midst  the  grimmer  Yorkshire  legends 
And  the  mountain  myths  of  Wales. 


How  the  souls  in  Purgatory 

Scrambled  up  from  fate  forlorn, 

On  St.  Keven's  sackcloth  ladder, 
Slyly  hitched  to  Satan's  horn. 

Of  the  fiddier  who  at  Tara 

Played  all  night  to  ghosts  of  kings  ; 
Of  the  brown  dwarfs,  and  the  fairies 

Dancing  in  their  moorland  rings  ! 

Jolliest  of  our  birds  of  singing, 

Best  he  loved  the  Bob-o-link. 
"  Hush  !  "  he  'd  say,  "  the  tipsy  fairies  ! 

Hear  the  little  folks  in  drink  ! " 

Merry-faced,  with  spade  and  fiddle, 
Singing  through  the  ancient  town, 

Only  this,  of  poor  Hugh  Tallant, 
Hath  Tradition  handed  down. 

Not  a  stone  his  grave  discloses  ; 

But  if  yet  his  spirit  walks, 
'T  is  beneath  the  trees  he  planted, 

And  when  Bob-o-Lincoln  talks  ; 

Green  memorials  of  the  gleeman  ! 

Linking  still  the  river-shores, 
With  their  shadows  cast  by  sunset, 

Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores  ! 

When  the  Father  of  his  Country 

Through  the  north-land  riding  came, 

And  the  roofs  were  starred  with  banners, 
And  the  steeples  rang  acclaim,  — 

When  each  war-scarred  Continental, 
Leaving  smithy,  mill,  and  farm, 

Waved  his  rusted  sword  in  welcome, 
And  shot  off  his  old  king's-arm,  — 

Slowly  passed  that  august  Presence 

Down  the  thronged  and  shouting  street 

Village  girls  as  white  as  angels 
Scattering  flowers  around  his  feet. 

Midway,  where  the  plane-tree's  shadow 
Deepest  fell,  his  rein  he  drew  : 

On  his  stately  head,  uncovered, 
Cool  and  soft  the  west-wind  blew. 

And  he  stood  up  in  his  stirrups, 
Looking  up  and  looking  down 

On  the  hills  of  Gold  and  Silver 
Rimming  round  the  little  town,  — 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


On  the  river,  full  of  sunshine, 

To  the  lap  of  greenest  vales 
Winding  down  from  wooded  headlands, 

Willow-skirted,  white  with  sails. 

And  he  said,  the  landscape  sweeping 
Slowly  with  his  ungloved  hand, 

"  I  have  seen  no  prospect  fairer 
In  this  goodly  Eastern  land." 

Then  the  bugles  of  his  escort 

Stirred  to  life  the  cavalcade  : 
And  that  head,  so  bare  and  stately, 

Vanished  down  the  depths  of  shade. 

Ever  since,  in  town  and  farm-house, 
Life  has  had  its  ebb  and  flow  ; 

Thrice  hath  passed  the  human  harvest 
To  its  garner  green  and  low. 

But  the  trees  the  gleeman  planted, 

Through  the  changes,  changeless  stand  ; 

As  the  marble  calm  of  Tadmor 
Mocks  the  desert's  shifting  sand. 

Still  the  level  moon  at  rising 
Silvers  o'er  each  stately  shaft  ; 

Still  beneath  them,  half  in  shadow, 
Singing,  glides  the  pleasure  craft  ; 

Still  beneath  them,  arm-enfolded, 
Love  and  Youth  together  stray  ; 

While,  as  heart  to  heart  beats  faster, 
More  and  more  their  feet  delay. 

Where  the  ancient  cobbler,  Keezar, 

On  the  open  hillside  wrought, 
Singing,  as  he  drew  his  stitches, 

Songs  his  German  masters  taught, 

Singing,  with  his  gray  hair  floating 
Round  his  rosy  ample  face, — 

Now  a  thousand  Saxon  craftsmen 
Stitch  and  hammer  in  his  place. 

All  the  pastoral  lanes  so  grassy 
Now  are  Traffic's  dusty  streets  ; 

From  the  village,  grown  a  city, 
Fast  the  rural  grace  retreats. 

But,  still  green,  and  tall,  and  stately, 

On  the  river's  winding  shores, 
Stand  the  Occidental  plane-trees, 

Stand  Hugh  Tallant's  sycamores. 


THE    PIPES    AT    LUCKNOW 
An  incident  of  the  Sepoy  mutiny. 

PIPES  of  the  misty  moorlands, 

Voice  of  the  glens  and  hills  ; 
The  droning  of  the  torrents, 

The  treble  of  the  rills  ! 
Not  the  braes  of  bloom  and  heather, 

Nor  the  mountains  dark  with  rain, 
Nor  maiden  bower,  nor  border  tower, 

Have  heard  your  sweetest  strain  ! 

Dear  to  the  Lowland  reaper, 

And  plaided  mountaineer, — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  Scottish  pipes  are  dear  ;  — 
Sweet  sounds  the  ancient  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  loch,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  pipes  at  Lucknow  played. 

Day  by  day  the  Indian  tiger 

Louder  yelled,  and  nearer  crept  ; 
Round  and  round  the  jungle-serpent 

Near  and  nearer  circles  swept. 
"  Pray  for  rescue,  wives  and  mothers,  — 

Pray  to-day  ! "  the  soldier  said  ; 
"  To-morrow,  death  's  between  us 

And  the  wrong  and  shame  we  dread." 

Oh,  they  listened,  looked,  and  waited, 

Till  their  hope  became  despair  ; 
And  the  sobs  of  low  bewailing 

Filled  the  pauses  of  their  prayer. 
Then  up  spake  a  Scottish  maiden, 

With  her  ear  unto  the  ground  : 
"  Dinna  ye  hear  it  ?  —  dinna  ye  hear  it  ? 

The  pipes  o'  Havelock  sound !  " 

Hushed  the  wounded  man  his  groaning  ; 

Hushed  the  wife  her  little  ones  ; 
Alone  they  heard  the  drum-roll 

And  the  roar  of  Sepoy  guns. 
But  to  sounds  of  home  and  childhood 

The  Highland  ear  was  true  ;  — 
As  her  mother's  cradle-crooning 

The  mountain  pipes  she  knew. 

Like  the  march  of  soundless  music 
Through  the  vision  of  the  seer, 

More  of  feeling  than  of  hearing, 
Of  the  heart  than  of  the  ear, 

She  knew  the  droning  pibroch, 


TELLING   THE   BEES 


59 


She  knew  the 'Campbell's  call  : 
"  Hark  !  hear  ye  no  MacGregor's, 
The  grandest  o'  them  all  !  " 

Oh,  they  listened,  dumb  and  breathless, 

And  they  caught  the  sound  at  last  ; 
Faint  and  far  beyond  the  Goomtee 

Rose  and  fell  the  piper's  blast  ! 
Then  a  burst  of  wild  thanksgiving 

Mingled  woman's  voice  and  man's  ; 
"  God  be  praised  !  — •  the  march  of  Have- 
lock  ! 

The  piping  of  the  clans  !  " 

Louder,  nearer,  fierce  as  vengeance, 

Sharp  and  shrill  as  swords  at  strife, 
Came  the  wild  MacGregor's  clan-call, 

Stinging  all  the  air  to  life. 
But  when  the  far-off  dust-cloud 

To  plaided  legions  grew, 
Full  tenderly  and  blithesomely 

The  pipes  of  rescue  blew  ! 

Round  the  silver  domes  of  Lucknow, 

Moslem  mosque  and  Pagan  shrine, 
Breathed  the  air  to  Britons  dearest, 

The  air  of  Auld  Lang  Syne. 
O'er  the  cruel  roll  of  war-drums 

Rose  that  sweet  and  homelike  strain  ; 
And  the  tartan  clove  the  turban, 

As  the  Goomtee  cleaves  the  plain 

Dear  to  the  corn-land  reaper 

And  plaided  mountaineer,  — 
To  the  cottage  and  the  castle 

The  piper's  song  is  dear. 
Sweet  sounds  the  Gaelic  pibroch 

O'er  mountain,  glen,  and  glade  ; 
But  the  sweetest  of  all  music 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow  played  ! 

TELLING   THE    BEES 

A  remarkable  custom,  brought  from  the  Old 
Country,  formerly  prevailed  in  the  rural  dis 
tricts  of  New  England.  On  the  death  of  a 
member  of  the  family,  the  bees  were  at  once 
informed  of  the  event,  and  their  hives  dressed 
in  mourning".  This  ceremonial  was  supposed 
to  be  necessary  to  prevent  the  swarms  from 
leaving-  their  hives  and  seeking-  a  new  home. 
[The  scene  is  minutely  that  of  the  Whittier 
homestead.] 

HERE  is  the  place  ;  right  over  the  hill 
Runs  the  path  I  took  j 


You  can  see  the  gap  in  the  old  wall  still, 
And  the  stepping-stones  in  the  shallow 
brook. 

There    is   the    house,   with   the   gate   red- 
barred, 

And  the  poplars  tall ; 

And  the  barn's  brown  length,  and  the  cattle- 
yard, 

And  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the 
walL 

There   are   the    beehives    ranged    in    the 

sun  ; 

And  down  by  the  brink 
Of  the  brook  are  her  poor  flowers,  weed- 

o'errun, 
Pansy  and  daffodil,  rose  and  pink. 

A  year  has  gone,  as  the  tortoise  goes, 

Heavy  and  slow  ; 
And  the  same  rose  blows,  and  the  same 

sun  glows, 

And   the  same   brook   sings   of   a  yeai 
ago. 

There  's  the  same  sweet  clover-smell  in  the 
breeze  ; 

And  the  June  sun  warm 
Tangles  his  wings  of  fire  in  the  trees, 

Setting,  as  then,  over  Fernside  farm. 

I  mind  me  how  with  a  lover's  care 

From  my  Sunday  coat 
I  brushed  off  the  burrs,  and  smoothed  my 

hair, 

And  cooled  at  the  brookside  my  brow 
and  throat. 

Since  we  parted,  a  month  had  passed,  — 

To  love,  a  year  ; 
Down  through  the  beeches  I  looked  at  last 

On  the  little  red  gate  and  the  well-sweep 


1  can  see  it  all  now,  —  the  slantwise  rain 

Of  light  through  the  leaves, 
The  sundown's  blaze  on  her  window-pane, 

The  bloom  of  her  roses  under  the  eaves. 

Just  the  same  as  a  month  before,  — 

The  house  and  the  trees, 
The  barn's  brown  gable,  the  vine  by  the 
door,  — 

Nothing  changed  but  the  hives  of  bees 


6o 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Before  them,  under  the  garden  wall, 

Forward  and  back, 
Went  drearily  singing  the  chore-girl  small, 

Draping  each  hive  with  a  shred  of  black. 

Trembling,  I  listened  :  the  summer  sun 

Had  the  chill  of  snow  ; 

For  I   knew  she   was   telling  the  bees  of 
one 

Gone  on  the  journey  we  all  must  go  ! 

Then  I  said  to  myself,  "  My  Mary  weeps 

For  the  dead  to-day  : 
Haply  her  blind  old  grandsire  sleeps 

The  fret  and  the  pain  of  his  age  away." 

But  her  dog  whined  low  ;  on  the  doorway 
sill, 

With  his  cane  to  his  chin, 
The  old  man  sat  ;  and  the  chore-girl  still 

Sung  to  the  bees  stealing  out  and  in. 

And  the  song  she  was  singing  ever  since 

In  my  ear  sounds  on  :  — 
"  Stay  at  home,  pretty  bees,  fly  not  hence  ! 

Mistress  Mary  is  dead  and  gone  !  " 


THE    SWAN    SONG    OF    PARSON 
AVERY 

In  Young'-i  Chronicles  of  Massachusetts  Bay 
from  1623  to  1636  may  be  found  Anthony 
Thacher's  Narrative  of  his  Shipwreck.  Thacher 
was  Avery's  companion  and  survived  to  tell  the 
tale.  Mather's  Magnalia,  III.  2,  gives  further 
Particulars  of  Parson  Avery's  End,  and  sug 
gests  the  title  of  the  poem. 

WHEN  the  reaper's  task  was  ended,  and  the 

summer  wearing  late, 
Parson  Avery  sailed  from   Newbury,  with 

his  wife  and  children  eight, 
Dropping    down    the    river-harbor    in    the 

shallop  «  Watch  and  Wait." 

Pleasantly  lay  the  clearings  in  the  mellow 

summer-morn, 
With  the  newly  planted  orchards  dropping 

their  fruits  first-born, 
And    the    home-roofs    like   brown    islands 

amid  a  sea  of  corn. 

Broad  meadows  reached  out  seaward  the 
tided  creeks  between, 


And  hills  rolled  wave-like  inland,  with 
oaks  and  walnuts  green  ;  — 

A  fairer  home,  a  goodlier  land,  his  eyee 
had  never  seen. 

Yet  away  sailed  Parson  Avery,  away  where 

duty  led, 
And  the   voice  of  God  seemed  calling,  to 

break  the  living  bread 
To   the  souls   of   fishers    starving   on   the 

rocks  of  Marblehead. 

All  day  they  sailed  :  at  nightfall  the 
pleasant  land-breeze  died, 

The  blackening  sky,  at  midnight,  its  starry 
lights  denied, 

And  far  and  low  the  thunder  of  tempest 
prophesied  ! 

Blotted     out    were     all    the    coast  -  lines, 

gone    were    rock,    and    wood,    and 

sand  ; 
Grimly  anxious  stood  the  skipper  with  the 

rudder  in  his  hand, 
And  questioned  of  the  darkness  what  was 

sea  and  what  was  land. 

And  the  preacher  heard  his  dear  ones, 
nestled  round  him,  weeping  sore  : 

"  Never  heed,  my  little  children  !  Christ 
is  walking  on  before 

To  the  pleasant  land  of  heaven,  where  the 
sea  shall  be  no  more." 

All  at  once  the  great  cloud  parted,  like  a 

curtain  drawn  aside, 
To  let  down  the  torch  of  lightning  on  the 

terror  far  and  wide  ; 
And  the  thunder  and  the  whirlwind  together 

smote  the  tide. 

There  was  wailing  in  the  shallop,  woman's 

wail  and  man's  despair, 
A  crash  of  breaking  timbers  on  the  rocks 

so  sharp  and  bare, 
And,  through  it  all,  the  murmur  of  Father 

Avery's  prayer. 

From  his  struggle  in  the  darkness  with  the 

wild  waves  and  the  blast, 
On  a  rock,  where  every  billow  broke  above 

him  as  it  passed, 
Alone,  of   all  his   household,  the   man   of 

God  was  cast. 


THE  DOUBLE-HEADED    SNAKE  OF   NEWBURY 


61 


There  a  comrade  heard  him  praying,  in  the 

pause  of  wave  and  wind  : 
"  All  my  own  have  gone  before  me,  and  I 

linger  just  behind  : 
Not  for  life  I  ask,  but  only  for  the  rest  Thy 

ransomed  find  ! 

*In   this  night  of  death  I  challenge  the 

promise  of  Thy  word  !  — 
Let  me  see  the  great  salvation  of  which 

mine  ears  have  heard  !  — 
Let  me  pass  from  hence  forgiven,  through 

the  grace  of  Christ,  our  Lord  ! 

"In  the  baptism  of  these  waters  wash 
white  my  every  sin, 

And  let  me  follow  up  to  Thee  my  house 
hold  and  my  kin  ! 

Open  the  sea-gate  of  Thy  heaven,  and  let 
me  enter  in  !  " 

When  the  Christian  sings  his  death-song, 
all  the  listening  heavens  draw  near, 

And  the  angels,  leaning  over  the  walls  of 
crystal,  hear 

How  the  notes  so  faint  and  broken  swell  to 
music  in  God's  ear. 

The  ear  of  God  was  open  to  His  servant's 

last  request  ; 
As  the  strong  wave  swept  him  downward 

the  sweet  hymn  upward  pressed, 
And  the  soul  of  Father  A  very  went,  singing, 

to  its  rest. 

There  was  wailing  on  the  mainland,  from 

the  rocks  of  Marblehead  ; 
In  the  stricken  church  of  Newbury  the  notes 

of  prayer  were  read  ; 
And  long,  by  board  and  hearthstone,   the 

living  mourned  the  dead. 

And  still  the  fishers  outbound,  or  scudding 

from  the  squall, 
With  grave  and  reverent  faces,  the  ancient 

tale  recall, 
When  they  see  the  white  waves  breaking 

on  the  Rock  of  Avery's  Fall  ! 

THE    DOUBLE-HEADED  SNAKE 
OF    NEWBURY 

"Concerning  ye  Amphisbsena,  as  soon  as  I 
received  your  commands,  I  made  diligent  in 
quiry  :  ...  he  assures  me  y'  it  had  really  two 


heads,  one  at  each  end  ;  two  mouths,  two  stings 
or  tongues."— REV.  CHRISTOPHER  TOPPAN  to 
COTTON  MATHER. 

FAR  away  in  the  twilight  time 
Of  every  people,  in  every  clime, 
Dragons  and  griffins  and  monsters  dire, 
Born  of  water,  and  air,  and  fire, 
Or  nursed,  like  the  Python,  in  the  mud 
And  ooze  of  the  old  Deucalion  flood, 
Crawl  and  wriggle  and  foam  with  rage, 
Through  dusk  tradition  and  ballad  age. 
So  from  the  childhood  of  Newbury  town 
And  its  time  of  fable  the  tale  comes  down 
Of  a  terror  which  haunted  bush  and  brake, 
The  Amphisbsena,  the  Double  Snake  ! 

Thou  who  makest  the  tale  thy  mirth, 
Consider  that  strip  of  Christian  earth 
On  the  desolate  shore  of  a  sailless  sea, 
Full  of  terror  and  mystery, 
Half  redeemed  from  the  evil  hold 
Of  the  wood  so  dreary,  and  dark,  and  old, 
Which  drank  with  its  lips  of  leaves  the  dew 
When  Time  was  young,  and  the  world  was 

new, 

And  wove  its  shadows  with  sun  and  moon, 
Ere  the  stones  of  Cheops  were  squared  and 

hewn. 

Think  of  the  sea's  dread  monotone, 
Of  the  mournful  wail  from  the  pine-wood 

blown, 
Of  the  strange,  vast  splendors  that  lit  the 

North, 

Of  the  troubled  throes  of  the  quaking  earth, 
And  the  dismal  tales  the  Indian  told, 
Till  the  settler's  heart  at  his  hearth  grew 

cold, 
And    he    shrank   from   the   tawny  wizard 

boasts, 
And  the  hovering  shadows  seemed  full  of 

ghosts, 

And  above,  below,  and  on  every  side, 
The  fear  of  his  creed  seemed  verified  ;  — 
And  think,  if  his  lot  were  now  thine  own, 
To  grope  with  terrors  nor  named  nor  known, 
How  laxer  muscle  and  weaker  nerve 
And  a  feebler  faith  thy  need  might  serve  ; 
And  own  to  thyself  the  wonder  more 
That  the  snake  had  two  heads,  and  not  a 

score  ! 

Whether  he  lurked  in  the  Oldtown  fen 
Or  the  gray  earth-flax  of  the  Devil's  Den, 
Or  swam  in  the  wooded  Artichoke, 


62 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Or  coiled  by  the  Northman's  Written  Rock, 
Nothing  on  record  is  left  to  show  ; 
Only  the  fact  that  be  lived,  we  know, 
And  left  the  cast  of  a  double  head 
In  the  scaly  mask  which  he  yearly  shed. 
For  he  carried  a  head  where  his  tail  should 

be, 

And  the  two,  of  course,  could  never  agree, 
But  wriggled  about  with  main  and  might, 
Now  to  the  left  and  now  to  the  right  ; 
Pulling  and  twisting  this  way  and  that, 
Neither  knew  what  the  other  was  at. 

A  snake  with  two  heads,  lurking  so  near  ! 
Judge  of  the  wonder,  guess  at  the  fear  ! 
Think  what  ancient  gossips  might  say, 
Shaking  their  heads  in  their  dreary  way, 
Between  the  meetings  on  Sabbath-day  ! 
How  urchins,  searching  at  day's  decline 
The  Common  Pasture  for  sheep  or  kine, 
The  terrible  double-ganger  heard 
In  leafy  rustle  or  whir  of  bird  ! 
Think  what  a  zest  it  gave  to  the  sport, 
In  berry-time,  of  the  younger  sort, 
As  over  pastures  blackberry-twined, 
Reuben  and  Dorothy  lagged  behind, 
And  closer  and  closer,  for  fear  of  harm, 
The  maiaen  clung  to  her  lover's  arm  ; 
And  how  the  spark,  who  was  forced  to  stay, 
By  his  sweetheart's  fears,  till  the  break  of 

day, 
Thanked  the  snake  for  the  fond  delay  ! 

Far  and  wide  the  tale  was  told, 

Like  a  snowball  growing  while  it  rolled. 

The  nurse  hushed  with  it  the  baby's  cry ; 

And  it  served,  in  the  worthy  minister's  eye, 

To  paint  the  primitive  serpent  by. 

Cotton  Mather  came  galloping  down 

All  the  way  to  Newbury  town, 

With  his  eyes  agog  and  his  ears  set  wide, 

And  his  marvellous  inkhorn  at  his  side  ; 

Stirring  the  while  in  the  shallow  pool 

Of  his  brains    for   the  lore  he  learned  at 

school, 

To  garnish  the  story,  with  here  a  streak 
Of  Latin  and  there  another  of  Greek  : 
And  the  tales  he  heard  and  the  notes  he 

took, 
Behold  !  are  they  not  in  his  Wonder-Book  ? 

Stories,  like  dragons,  are  hard  to  kill. 
If  the  snake  does  not,  the  tale  runs  still 
In  Byfield  Meadows,  on  Pipestave  Hill. 
And  still,  whenever  husband  and  wife 


Publish  the  shame  of  their  daily  strife, 
And,  with  mad  cross-purpose,  tug  and  strain 
At  either  end  of  the  marriage-chain, 
The  gossips  say  with  a  knowing  shake 
Of  their  gray  heads,  "  Look  at  the  Double 

Snake  ! 

One  in  body  and  two  in  will, 
The  Amphisbsena  is  living-  still !  " 


MABEL   MARTIN 


A   HARVEST   IDYL 

Susanna  Martin,  an  aged  woman  of  Ames- 
bury,  Mass.,  was  tried  and  executed  for  the 
alleged  crime  of  witchcraft.  Her  home  was  in 
what  is  now  known  as  Pleasant  Valley  on  the 
Merrimac,  a  little  above  the  old  Ferry  way, 
where,  tradition  says,  an  attempt  was  made  to 
assassinate  Sir  Edmund  Andros  on  his  way 
to  Falmouth  (afterward  Portland)  and  Pema- 
quid,  which  was  frustrated  by  a  warning-  timely 
given.  Goody  Martin  was  the  only  woman 
hanged  on  the  north  side  of  the  Merrimac 
during-  the  dreadful  delusion.  The  aged  wife 
of  Judge  Bradbury,  who  lived  on  the  other  side 
of  the  Powow  River,  was  imprisoned  and  would 
have  been  put  to  death  but  for  the  collapse  of 
the  hideous  persecution. 

The  substance  of  the  poem  which  follows 
was  published  under  the  name  of  I  he  Witch's 
Daughter,  in  The  National  Era  in  1857.  In 
1875  my  publishers  desired  to  issue  it  with  illus 
trations,  and  I  then  enlarged  it  and  otherwise 
altered  it  to  its  present  form.  The  principal 
addition  was  in  the  verses  which  constitute 
Part  I. 

PROEM 

I  CALL  the   old  time  back  :    I  bring  my 

lay 

In  tender  memory  of  the  summer  day 
When,  where  our  native  river  kpsed  away, 

We   dreamed  it  over,  while  the   thrushes 

made 
Songs  of  their  own,  and  the  great  pine-tree* 

laid 
On   warm   noonlights  the  masses  of  theii 

shade. 

And  she  was  with  us,  living  o'er  again 
Her   life    in    ours,    despite    of   years    and 

pain,  — 
The  Autumn's  brightness  after  latter  rain. 


MABEL   MARTIN 


Beautiful  in  her  holy  peace  as  one 

Who  stands,  at  evening,  when  the  work  is 

done, 
Glorified  in  the  setting  of  the  sun  ! 

Her  memory  makes  our  common  landscape 

seem 

Fairer  than  any  of  which  painters  dream  ; 
Lights  the  brown  hills  and  sings  in  every 

stream  ; 

For  she  whose  speech  was  always  truth's 

pure  gold 
Heard,   not  unpleased,  its  simple  legends 

told, 
And  loved  with  us  the  beautiful  and  old, 

I.      THE   RIVER   VALLEY 

Across  the  level  tableland, 
A  grassy,  rarely  trodden  way, 
With  thinnest  skirt  of  birchen  spray 

And  stunted  growth  of  cedar,  leads 
To  where  you  see  the  dull  plain  fall 
Sheer  off,  steep-slanted,  ploughed  by  all 

The  seasons'  rainfalls.  On  its  brink 
The  over-leaning  harebells  swing, 
With  roots  half  bare  the  pine-trees  cling  ; 

And,  through  the  shadow  looking  west, 
You  see  the  wavering  river  flow 
Along  a  vale,  that  far  below 

Holds  to  the  sun,  the  sheltering  hills 
And  glimmering  water-line  between, 
Broad  fields  of  corn  and  meadows  green, 

And  fruit-bent  orchards  grouped  around 
The  low  brown  roofs  and  painted  eaves, 
And  chimney-tops  half  hid  in  leaves. 

No  warmer  valley  hides  behind 

Yon  wind-scourged  sand-dunes,  cold  and 

bleak  ; 
No  fairer  river  comes  to  seek 

The  wave-sung  welcome  of  the  sea, 
Or  mark  the  northmost  border  line 
Of  sun-loved  growths  of  nut  and  vine. 

Here,  ground-fast  in  their  native  fields, 
Untempted  by  the  city's  gain, 
The  quiet  farmer  folk  remain 


Who  bear  the  pleasant  name  of  Friends, 
And  keep  their  fathers'  gentle  ways 
And  simple  speech  of  Bible  days  ; 

In  whose  neat  homesteads  woman  holds 
With  modest  ease  her  equal  place, 
And  wears  upon  her  tranquil  face 

The  look  of  one  who,  merging  not 
Her  self-hood  in  another's  will, 
Is  love's  and  duty's  handmaid  still. 

Pass  with  me  down  the  path  that  winds 
Through  birches  to  the  open  land, 
Where,  close  upon  the  river  strand 

You  mark  a  cellar,  vine  o'errun, 

Above  whose  wall  of  loosened  stones 
The  sumach  lifts  its  reddening  cones, 

And  the  black  nightshade's  berries  shine, 
And  broad,  unsightly  burdocks  fold 
The  household  ruin,  century-old. 

Here,  in  the  dim  colonial  time 

Of  sterner  lives  and  gloomier  faith, 
A  woman  lived,  tradition  saith, 

Who  wrought  her  neighbors  foul  annoy, 
And  witched  and  plagued  the  country 
side, 
Till  at  the  hangman's  hand  she  died. 

Sit  with  me  while  the  westering  day 
Falls  slantwise  down  the  quiet  vale, 
And,  haply  ere  yon  loitering  sail, 

That  rounds  the  upper  headland,  falls 
Below  Deer  Island's  pines,  or  sees 
Behind  it  Hawkswood's  belt  of  trees 

Rise  black  against  the  sinking  sun, 
My  idyl  of  its  days  of  old, 
The  valley's  legend,  shall  be  told. 

II.  THE  HUSKING 

It  was  the  pleasant  harvest-time, 

When  cellar-bins  are  closely  stowed, 
And  garrets  bend  beneath  their  load, 

And  the  old  swallow-haunted  barns, — 
Brown-gabled,  long,  and  full  of  seams 
Through     which     the     nioted     sunlight 
streams. 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


And  winds  blow  freshly  in,  to  shake 
The  red  plumes  of  the  roosted  cocks, 
And     the     loose     hay  -  mow's     scented 
locks,  — 

Are  filled  with  summer's  ripened  stores, 
Its  odorous  grass  and  barley  sheaves, 
From  their  low  scaffolds  to  their  eaves. 

On  Esek  Harden's  oaken  floor, 

With  many  an  autumn  threshing  worn, 
Lay  the  heaped  ears  of  unhusked  corn. 

And  thither  came  young  men  and  maids, 
Beneath  a  moon  that,  large  and  low, 
Lit  that  sweet  eve  of  long  ago. 

They  took  their  places  ;  some  by  chance, 
And  others  by  a  merry  voice 
Or  sweet  smile  guided  to  their  choice. 

How  pleasantly  the  rising  moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through   the  great  elm- 
boughs  ! 

On  sturdy  boyhood,  sun-embrowned, 
On  girlhood  with  its  solid  curves 
Of  healthful  strength  and  painless  nerves! 

And  jests  went    round,    and    laughs    that 

made 

The  house-dog  answer  with  his  howl, 
And  kept  astir  the  barn-yard  fowl  ; 

And  quaint  old  songs  their  fathers  sung 
In  Derby  dales  and  Yorkshire  moors, 
Ere  Norman  William  trod  their  shores  ; 

And  tales,  whose  merry  license  shook 
The  fat  sides  of  the  Saxon  thane, 
Forgetful  of  the  hovering  Dane,  — 

Rude  plays  to  Celt  and  Cimbri  known, 
The  charms  and  riddles  that  beguiled 
On     Oxus'    banks    the    young    world's 
child,  — 

That  primal  picture-speech  wherein 
Have  youth  and  maid  the  story  told, 
So  new  in  each,  so  dateless  old, 

Recalling  pastoral  Ruth  in  her 

Who  waited,  blushing  and  demure, 
The  red-ear's  kiss  of  forfeiture. 


III.   THE   WITCH'S   DAUGHTER 

But  still  the  sweetest  voice  was  mute 
That  river-valley  ever  heard 
From  lips  of  maid  or  throat  of  bird  ; 

For  Mabel  Martin  sat  apart, 

And  let  the  hay-mow's  shadow  fall 
Upon  the  loveliest  face  of  all. 

She  sat  apart,  as  one  forbid, 

Who  knew  that  none  would  condescend 
To  own  the  Witch-wife's  child  a  friend. 

The  seasons  scarce  had  gone  their  round, 
Since  curious  thousands  thronged  to  see 
Her  mother  at  the  gallows-tree  ; 

And  mocked  the  prison-palsied  limbs 
That  faltered  on  the  fatal  stairs, 
And  wan  lip  trembling  with  its  prayers  ! 

Few  questioned  of  the  sorrowing  child, 
Or,  when  they  saw  the  mother  die, 
Dreamed  of  the  daughter's  agony. 

They  went  up  to  their  homes  that  day, 
As  men  and  Christians  justified  : 
God  willed  it,  and  the  wretch  had  died  I 

Dear  God  and  Father  of  us  all, 
Forgive  our  faith  in  cruel  lies, — 
Forgive  the  blindness  that  denies  ! 

Forgive  thy  creature  when  he  takes, 
For  the  all-perfect  love  Thou  art, 
Some  grim  creation  of  his  heart. 

Cast  down  our  idols,  overturn 
Our  bloody  altars  ;  let  us  see 
Thyself  in  Thy  humanity  ! 

Young  Mabel  from  her  mother's  grare 
Crept  to  her  desolate  hearth-stone, 
And  wrestled  with  her  fate  alone  ; 

With  love,  and  anger,  and  despair, 
The  phantoms  of  disordered  sense, 
The  awful  doubts  of  Providence  ! 

Oh,  dreay  broke  the  winter  days, 
And  dreary  fell  the  winter  nights 
When,    one    by    one,    the    neighboring 
lights 


MABEL   MARTIN 


Went  out,  and  human  sounds  grew  still, 
And  all  the  phantom-peopled  dark 
Closed    round    her    hearth-fire's    dying 
spark. 

And  summer  days  were  sad  and  long, 
And  sad  the  uncompanioned  eves, 
And  sadder  sunset-tinted  leaves, 

And  Indian  Summer's  airs  of  balm  ; 
She  scarcely  felt  the  soft  caress, 
The  beauty  died  of  loneliness  ! 

The  school-boys  jeered  her  as  they  passed, 
And,  when  she  sought  the  house  of  prayer, 
Her  mother's  curse  pursued  her  there. 

And  still  o'er  many  a  neighboring  door 
She  saw  the  horseshoe's  curved  charm, 
To  guard  against  her  mother's  harm  : 

That  mother,  poor  and  sick  and  lame, 
Who  daily,  by  the  old  arm-chair, 
Folded  her  withered  hands  in  prayer  ;  — 

Who  turned,  in  Salem's  dreary  jail, 
Her  worn  old  Bible  o'er  and  o'er, 
When  her  dim  eyes  could  read  no  more  ! 

Sore  tried  and  pained,  the  poor  girl  kept 
Her  faith,  and  trusted  that  her  way, 
So  dark,  would  somewhere  meet  the  day. 

And  still  her  weary  wheel  went  round 
Day  after  day,  with  no  relief  : 
Small  leisure  have  the  poor  for  grief. 


IV.   THE   CHAMPION 

So  in  the  shadow  Mabel  sits  ; 

Untouched  by  mirth  she  sees  and  hears, 
Her  smile  is  sadder  than  her  tears. 

But  cruel  eyes  have  found  her  out, 
And  cruel  lips  repeat  her  name, 
And  taunt  her  with  her  mother's  shame. 

She  answered  not  with  railing  words, 
But  drew  her  apron  o'er  her  face, 
And,  sobbing,  glided  from  the  place. 

And  only  pausing  at  the  door, 

Her  sad  eyes  met  the  troubled  gaze 
Of  one  who,  in  her  better  days, 


Had  been  her  warm  and  steady  friend, 
Ere  yet  her  mother's  doom  had  made 
Even  Esek  Harden  half  afraid. 

He  felt  that  mute  appeal  of  tears, 
Arid,  starting,  with  an  angry  frown, 
Hushed  all  the  wicked  murmurs  down. 

"  Good  neighbors  mine,"  he  sternly  said, 
"  This  passes  harmless  mirth  or  jest  ; 
I  brook  no  insult  to  my  guest. 

"  She  is  indeed  her  mother's  child, 
But  God's  sweet  pity  ministers 
Unto  no  whiter  soul  than  hers. 

"  Let  Goody  Martin  rest  in  peace  ; 
I  never  knew  her  harm  a  fly, 
And  witch  or  not,  God  knows  —  not  I. 

"  I  know  who  swore  her  life  away  ; 
And  as  God  lives,  I  'd  not  condemn 
An  Indian  dog  on  word  of  them." 

The  broadest  lands  in  all  the  town, 
The  skill  to  guide,  the  power  to  awe, 
Were  Harden's  ;  and  his  word  was  law 

None  dared  withstand  him  to  his  face, 
But  one  sly  maiden  spake  aside: 
"  The  little  witch  is  evil-eyed  ! 

"  Her  mother  only  killed  a  cow, 
Or  witched  a  churn  or  dairy-pan  ; 
But  she,  forsooth,  must  charm  a  man  ! ': 


V.  IN  THE  SHADOW 

Poor  Mabel,  homeward  turning,  passed 
The  nameless  terrors  of  the  wood, 
And  saw,  as  if  a  ghost  pursued, 

Her  shadow  gliding  in  the  moon  ; 

The  soft  breath  of  the  west-wind  gave 
A  chill  as  from  her  mother's  grave. 

How  dreary  seemed  the  silent  house  ! 
Wide  in  the  moonbeams'  ghastly  glare 
Its  windows  had  a  dead  man's  stare  ! 

And,  like  a  gaunt  and  spectral  hand, 
The  tremulous  shadow  of  a  birch 
Reached  out  and  touched  the  door's  lo\f 
porch, 


66 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


As  if  to  lift  its    latch  ;  hard  by, 
A  sudden  warning1  call  she  heard, 
The  nigat-cry  of  a  boding  bird. 

She  leaned  against  the  door  ;  her  face, 
So  fair,  so  young,  so  full  of  pain, 
White  in  the  moonlight's  silver  rain. 

The  river,  on  its  pebbled  rim, 

Made  music  such  as  childhood  knew  ; 
The     door  -  yard    tree    v/as     whispered 
through 

By  voices  such  as  childhood's  ear 
Had  heard  in  moonlights  long  ago  ; 
And  through  the  willow-boughs  below 

She  saw  the  rippled  waters  shine  ; 
Beyond,  in  waves  of  shade  and  light, 
The  hills  rolled  off  into  the  night. 

She  saw  and  heard,  but  over  all 

A  sense  of  some  transforming  spell, 
Tha  shadow  of  her  sick  heart  fell. 

And  still  across  the  wooded  space 
The  harvest  lights  of  Harden  shone, 
And    song    and    jest    and    laugh   went 


And  he,  so  gentle,  true,  and  strong, 
Of  men  the  bravest  and  the  best, 
Had    he,    too,    scorned    her    with 
rest? 


the 


She  strove  to  drown  her  sense  of  wrong, 
And,  in  her  old  and  simple  way, 
To  teach  her  bitter  heart  to  pray. 

Poor  child  !  the  prayer,  begun  in  faith, 
Grew  to  a  low,  despairing  cry 
Of  utter  misery  :   "  Let  me  die  ! 

*'  Oh  !  take  me  from  the  scornful  eyes, 
And  hide  me  where  the  cruel  speech 
And  mocking  finger  may  not  reach  ! 

"  I  dare  not  breathe  my  mother's  name  : 
A  daughter's  right  I  dare  not  crave 
To  weep  above  her  unblest  grave  ! 

*  Let  me  not  live  until  my  heart, 
With  few  to  pity,  and  with  none 
To  love  me,  hardens  into  stone. 


"  O  God  !  have  mercy  on  Thy  child, 
Whose  faith   in  Thee  grows   weak 

small, 
And  take  me  ere  I  lose  it  all  ! " 


and 


A  shadow  on  the  moonlight  fell, 

And  murmuring  wind  and  wave  became 
A  voice  whose  burden  was  her  name. 


VI.   THE   BETROTHAL 


Had 


then    God    heard    her  ?      Had    He 
sent 

His  angel  down  ?     In  flesh  and  blood, 
Before  her  Esek  Harden  stood  ! 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  her  arm  : 

"  Dear  Mabel,  this  no  more  shall  be  ; 
Who  scoffs  at  you  must  scoff  at  me. 

"You  know  rough  Esek  Harden  well  ; 
And  if  he  seems  no  suitor  gay, 
And  if  his  hair  is  touched  with  gray, 

"  The  maiden  grown  shall  never  find 
His   heart    less    warm    than    when    she 

smiled, 
Upon  his  knees  a  little  child  !  " 

Her  tears  of  grief  were  tears  of  joy, 
As,  folded  in  his  strong  embrace, 
She  looked  in  Esek  Harden's  face. 

"  O  truest  friend  of  all  !  "  she  said, 

"  God  bless  you  for  your  kindly  thought, 
And  make  me  worthy  of  my  lot  !  " 

He  led  her  forth,  and,  blent  in  one, 
Beside  their  happy  pathway  ran 
The  shadows  of  the  maid  and  man. 

He  led  her  through  his  dewy  fields, 

To  where  the  swinging  lanterns  glowed, 
And    through    the    doors    the    husker,' 
showed. 

"  Good  friends  and  neighbors  !  "  Esek  said 
"  I  'm  weary  of  this  lonely  life  ; 
In  Mabel  see  my  chosen  wife  ! 

"  She  greets  you  kindly,  one  and  all  ; 
The  past  is  past,  and  all  offence 
Falls  harmless  from  her  innocence 


THE   PROPHECY   OF   SAMUEL   SEWALL 


67 


"  Henceforth  she  stands  no  more  alone  ; 
You  know  what  Esek  Harden  is  ;  — 
He  brooks  no  wrong  to  him  or  his. 

"  Now  let  the  merriest  tales  be  told, 
And  let  the  sweetest  songs  be  sung 
That  ever  made  the  old  heart  young  ! 

"  For  now  the  lost  has  found  a  home  ; 
And  a  lone  hearth  shall  brighter  burn, 
As  all  the  household  joys  return  !  " 

Oh,  pleasantly  the  harvest-moon, 
Between  the  shadow  of  the  mows, 
Looked  on  them  through  the  great  elm- 
boughs  ! 

On  Mabel's  curls  of  golden  hair, 
On  Esek's  shaggy  strength  it  fell  ; 
And  the  wind  whispered,  "  It  is  well  !  " 


THE  PROPHECY  OF  SAMUEL 
SEWALL 

The  prose  version  of  this  prophecy  is  to  be 
found  in  Sew  all's  The  New  Heaven  upon  the 
New  Earth,  1697,  quoted  in  Joshua  Coffin's 
History  of  Ne.wbury.  Judge  Sewall's  father, 
Henry  Sewall,  was  one  of  the  pioneers  of  New- 
bury. 

UP  and  down  the  village  streets 
Strange  are  the  forms  my  fancy  meets, 
For  the  thoughts  and  things  of  to-day  are 

hid, 

And  through  the  veil  of  a  closed  lid 
The  ancient  worthies  I  see  again  : 
I  hear  the  tap  of  the  elder's  cane, 
And  his  awful  periwig  I  see, 
And  the  silver  buckles  of  shoe  and  knee. 
Stately  and  slow,  with  thoughtful  air, 
His  black  cap  hiding  his  whitened  hair, 
Walks  the  Judge  of  the  great  Assize, 
Samuel  Sewall  the  good  and  wise. 
His  face  with  lines  of  firmness  wrought, 
He  wears  the  look  of  a  man  unbought, 
Who  swears  to  his  hurt  and  changes  not  ; 
Yet,  touched  and  softened  nevertheless 
With  the  grace  of  Christian  gentleness, 
The  face  that  a  child  would  climb  to  kiss  ! 
True  and  tender  and  brave  and  just, 
That  man  might  honor  and  woman  trust. 

Touching  and  sad,  a  tale  is  told, 
Like  a  penitent  hymn  of  the  Psalmist  old, 


Of  the  fast  which  the  good  man  lifelong 

kept 

With  a  haunting  sorrow  that  never  slept, 
As  the  circling  year  brought  round  the  time 
Of  an  error  that  left  the  sting  of  crime, 
When  he  sat  on  the  bench  of  the  witchcraft 

courts, 

With  the  laws  of  Moses  and  Hale's  Reports, 
And  spake,  in  the  name  of  both,  the  word 
That  gave  the  witch's  neck  to  the  cord, 
And  piled  the  oaken  planks  that  pressed 
The  feeble  life  from  the  warlock's  breast  ! 
All  the  day  long,  from  dawn  to  dawn, 
His  door  was  bolted,  his  curtain  drawn  ; 
No  foot  on  his  silent  threshold  trod, 
No  eye  looked  on  him  save  that  of  God, 
As  he  baffled  the  ghosts  of  the  dead  with 

charms 

Of  penitent  tears,  and  prayers,  and  psalms, 
And,  with  precious  proofs  from  the  sacred 

word 

Of  the  boundless  pity  and  love  of  the  Lord, 
His  faith  confirmed  and  his  trust  renewed 
That  the  sin  of  his  ignorance,  sorely  rued, 
Might  be  washed  away  in  the  mingled  flood 
Of   his    human  sorrow   and   Christ's   dear 

blood  ! 

Green  forever  the  memory  be 
Of  the  Judge  of  the  old  Theocracy, 
Whom  even  his  errors  glorified, 
Like  a  far-seen,  sunlit  mountain-side 
By  the  cloudy  shadows  which  o'er  it  glide  1 
Honor  and  praise  to  the  Puritan 
Who  the  halting  step  of  his  age  outran, 
And,  seeing  the  infinite  worth  of  man 
In  the  priceless  gift  the  Father  gave, 
In  the  infinite  love  that  stooped  to  save, 
Dared  not  brand  his  brother  a  slave  ! 
"  Who  doth  such  wrong,"  he  was  wont  to 

say, 

In  his  own  quaint,  picture-loving  way, 
"Flings  up  to  Heaven  a  hand-grenade 
Which  God  shall  cast  down  upon  hibhead  !  " 

Widely  as  heaven  and  hell,  contrast 
That  brave  old  jurist  of  the  past 
And  the  cunning  trickster  and  knave   nf 

courts 

Who  the  holy  features  of  Truth  distorts,  — 
Ruling  as  right  the  will  of  the  strong, 
Poverty,  crime,  and  weakness  wrong  ; 
Wide-eared  to  power,  to  the  wronged  and 

weak 
Deaf  as  Egypt's  gods  of  leek  ; 


68 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Scoffing  aside  at  party's  nod 

Order  of  nature  and  law  of  God  ; 

For  whose  dabbled   ermine    respect    were 

waste, 

Reverence  folly,  and  awe  misplaced  ; 
Justice  of  whom  't  were  vain  to  seek 
As  from  Koordish  robber  or  Syrian  Sheik  ! 
Oh,  leave  the  wretch  to  his  bribes  and  sins  ; 
Let  him  rot  in  the  web  of  lies  he  spins  ! 
To  the  saintly  soul  of  the  early  day, 
To   the   Christian  judge,  let  ns  turn  and 

say  : 

"  Praise  and  thanks  for  an  honest  man  !  — 
Glory  to  God  for  the  Puritan  !  " 

I  see,  far  southward,  this  quiet  day, 
The  hills  of  Newbury  rolling  away, 
With  the  many  tints  of  the  season  gay, 
Dreamily  blending  in  autumn  mist 
Crimson,  and  gold,  and  amethyst. 
Long  and  low,  with  dwarf  trees  crowned, 
Plum  Island  lies,  like  a  whale  aground, 
A  stone's  toss  over  the  narrow  sound. 
Inland,  as  far  as  the  eye  can  go, 
The  hills  curve  round  like  a  bended  bow  ; 
A  silver  arrow  from  out  them  sprung, 
I  see  the  shine  of  the  Quasycung  ; 
And,    round    and    round,   over  valley  and 

hill, 

Old  roads  winding,  as  old  roads  will, 
Here  to  a  ferry,  and  there  to  a  mill  ; 
And  glimpses  of  chimneys  and  gabled 

eaves, 
Through    green    elm    arches    and    maple 

leaves,  — 

Old  homesteads  sacred  to  all  that  can 
Gladden  or  sadden  the  heart  of  man, 
Over  whose  thresholds  of  oak  and  stone 
Life  and  Death  have  come  and  gone  ! 
There  pictured  tiles  in  the  fireplace  show, 
Great  beams  sag  from  the  ceiling  low, 
The  dresser  glitters  with  polished  w?res, 
The  long  clock  ticks  on  the  foot-worn  stairs, 
And   the    low,  broad    chimney  shows    the 

crack 

By  the  earthquake  made  a  century  back. 
Up  from   their  midst  springs  the  village 

spire 

With  the  crest  of  its  cock  in  the  sun  afire  ; 
Beyond  are  orchards  and  planting  lands, 
And   great   salt  marshes  and  glimmering 

sands, 
Lnd,  where  north  and  south  the  coast-lines 

run, 
The  blink  of  the  sea  in  breeze  and  sun  ! 


I  see  it  all  like  a  chart  unrolled, 
But  my  thoughts  are  full  of  the  past  and 

old, 

I  hear  the  tales  of  my  boyhood  told  ; 
And  the  shadows  and  shapes  of  early  days 
Flit  dimly  by  in  the  veiling  haze, 
With  measured  movement  and   rhythmia 

chime 

Weaving  like  shuttles  my  web  of  rhyme. 
I  think  of  the  old  man  wise  and  good 
Who  once  on  yon  misty  hillsides  stood, 
(A  poet  who  never  measured  rhyme, 
A  seer  unknown  to  his  dull-eared  time,) 
And,  propped  on  his  staff  of  age,  looked 

down, 

With  his  boyhood's  love,  on  his  native  town, 
Where,  written  as  if  on  its  hills  and  plains, 
His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains, 
For  the  voices  of  wood,  and  wave,  and  wind 
To  read  in  the  ear  of  the  musing  mind  :  — 

"  As  long  as  Plum  Island,  to  guard  the 

coast 

As  God  appointed,  shall  keep  its  post  ; 
As  long  as  a  salmon  shall  haunt  the  deep 
Of  Merrimac  River,  or  sturgeon  leap  ; 
As  long  as  pickerel  swift  and  slim, 
Or  red-backed  perch,  in  Crane  Pond  swim  j 
As  long  as  the  annual  sea-fowl  know 
Their  time  to  come  and  their  time  to  go  ; 
As  long  as  cattle  shall  roam  at  will 
The  green  grass  meadows  by  Turkey  Hill ; 
As  long  as  sheep  shall  look  from  the  side 
Of  Oldtown  Hill  on  marishes  wide, 
And  Parker  River,  and  salt-sea  tide  ; 
As  long  as  a  wandering  pigeon  shall  search 
The  fields  below  from  his  white-oak  perch, 
When  the  barley-harvest  is  ripe  and  shorn, 
And  the  dry  husks  fall  from  the  standing 

corn  ; 

As  long  as  Nature  shall  not  grow  old, 
Nor  drop  her  work  from  her  doting  hold, 
And  her  care  for  the  Indian  corn  forget, 
And  the  yellow  rows  in  pairs  to  set  ;  — 
So  long  shall  Christians  here  be  born, 
Grow  up  and  ripen  as  God's  sweet  corn  !  — 
By  the  beak  of  bird ,  by  the  breath  of  frost, 
Shall  never  a  holy  ear  be  lost, 
But,   husked    by    Death   in    the    Planter's 

sight, 
Be  sown  again  in  the  fields  of  light  !  " 

The  Island  still  is  purple  with  plums, 

Up  the  river  the  salmon  comes, 

The  sturgeon  leaps,  and  the  wild-fowl  feedr 


THE   PREACHER 


69 


On  hillside  berries  and  niarish  seeds,  — 
All  the  beautiful  signs  remain, 
From  spring-time  sowing  to  autumn  rain 
The  good  man's  vision  returns  again  ! 
And  let  us  hope,  as  well  we  can, 
That  the  Silent  Angel  who  garners  man 
May  find  some  grain  as  of  old  he  found 
In  the  human  cornfield  ripe  and  sound, 
And   the   Lord   of   the  Harvest   deign 

own 
The  precious  seed  by  the  fathers  sown  ! 


to 


THE   RED    RIVER   VOYAGEUR 

[Suggested  by  reading  the  following  passage 
in  Minnesota  and  its  Resources,  by  J.  Wesley 
Bond :  "  As  I  pass  slowly  along  the  lonely 
road  that  leads  me  from  thee,  Selkirk,  mine 
eyes  do  turn  continually  to  gaze  upon  thy  smil 
ing,  golden  fields,  and  thy  lofty  towers,  now 
burnished  with  the  rays  of  the  departing  sun, 
while  the  sweet  vesper  bell  reverberates  afar 
and  strikes  so  mournfully  pleasant  upon  mine 
ear.  I  feel  satisfied  that,  though  absent  thou 
sands  of  weary  miles,  my  thoughts  will  always 
dwell  on  thee  with  rapturous  emotions."  At 
midnight,  with  the  last  stroke  of  the  clock 
ushering  in  the  17th  of  December,  1891,  the 
84th  anniversary  of  Whittier's  birth,  the  bells 
of  St.  Boniface  rang  a  joyous  peal.] 

OUT  and  in  the  river  is  winding 
The  links  of  its  long,  red  chain, 

Through  belts  of  dusky  pine-laud 
And  gusty  leagues  of  plain. 

Only,  at  times,  a  smoke-wreath 

With  the  drifting  cloud-rack  joins, — 

The  smoke  of  the  hunting-lodges 
Of  the  wild  Assiniboins  ! 

Drearily  blows  the  north-wind 
From  the  land  of  ice  and  snow  ; 

The  eyes  that  look  are  weary, 
And  heavy  the  hands  that  row. 

And  with  one  foot  on  the  water, 

And  one  upon  the  shore, 
The  Angel  of  Shadow  gives  warning 

That  day  shall  be  no  more. 

Is  it  the  clang  of  wild-geese  ? 

Is  it  the  Indian's  yell, 
That  lends  to  the  voice  of  the  north-wind 

The  tones  of  a  far-off  bell  ? 


The  voyageur  smiles  as  he  listens 
To  the  sound  that  grows  apace  ; 

Well  he  knows  the  vesper  ringing 
Of  the  bells  of  St.  Boniface. 

The  bells  of  the  Roman  Mission, 
That  call  from  their  turrets  twain, 

To  the  boatman  on  the  river, 
To  the  hunter  on  the  plain  ! 

Even  so  in  our  mortal  journey 
The  bitter  north- winds  blow, 

And  thus  upon  life's  Red  River 
Our  hearts,  as  oarsmen,  row. 

And  when  the  Angel  of  Shadow 
Rests  his  feet  on  wave  and  shore, 

And  our  eyes  grow  dim  with  watching 
And  our  hearts  faint  at  the  oar, 

Happy  is  he  who  heareth 

The  signal  of  his  release 
In  the  bells  of  the  Holy  City, 

The  chimes  of  eternal  peace  ! 


THE   PREACHER 

George  Whitefield,  the  celebrated  preacher, 
died  at  Newburyport  in  1770,  and  was  buried 
under  the  church  which  has  since  borne  his 
name. 

ITS  windows  flashing  to  the  sky, 
Beneath  a  thousand  roofs  of  brown, 
Far  down  the  vale,  my  friend  and  I 
Beheld  the  old  and  quiet  town  ; 
The  ghostly  sails  that  out  at  sea 
Flapped  their  white  wings  of  mystery  ; 
The  beaches  glimmering  in  the  sun, 
And  the  low  wooded  capes  that  run 
Into  the  sea-mist  north  and  south  ; 
The  sand-bluffs  at  the  river's  mouth  ; 
The  swinging  chain-bridge,  and,  afar, 
The  foam-line  of  the  harbor-bar. 

Over  the  woods  and  meadow-lands 

A  crimson-tinted  shadow  lay, 

Of  clouds  through  which  the  setting  day 

Flung  a  slant  glory  far  away. 

It  glittered  on  the  wet  sea-sands, 

It  flamed  upon  the  city's  panes, 

Smote  the  white  sails  of  ships  that  wore 

Outward  or  in,  and  glided  o'er 

The  steeples  with  their  veering  vanes  ! 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Awhile  tny  friend  with  rapid  search 
O'erran  the  landscape.     "  Yonder  spire 
Over  gray  roots,  a  shaft  of  tire  ; 
What  is  it,    pray  ?  "    -  "  The  Whitefield 

Church  ! 

Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
There  rest  the  marvellous  prophet's  bones." 
Then  as  our  homeward  way  we  walked, 
Of  the  great  preacher's  life  we  talked  ; 
And  through  the  mystery  of  our  theme 
The  outward  glory  seemed  to  stream, 
And  Nature's  self  interpreted 
The  doubtful  record  of  the  dead  ; 
And  every  level  beam  that  smote 
The  sails  upon  the  dark  atloat 
A  symbol  of  the  light  became, 
Which  touched  the  shadows  of  our  blame 
With  tongues  of  Pentecostal  tiarne. 

Over  the  roofs  of  the  pioneers 

Gathers  the  moss  of  a  hundred  years  ; 

On  man  and    his    works    has    passed    the 

change 

Which  needs  must  be  in  a  century's  range. 
The  land  lies  open  and  warm  in  the  sun, 
Anvils  clamor  and  mill-wheels  run, — 
Flocks  on  the  hillsides,  herds  on  the  plain, 
The  wilderness  gladdened   with  fruit  and 

grain  ! 

But  the  living  faith  of  the  settlers  old 
A  dead  profession  their  children  hold  ; 
To  the  lust  of  office  and  greed  of  trade 
A  stepping-stone  is  the  altar  made. 
The  Church,  to  place  and  power  the  door, 
Rebukes  the  sin  of  the  world  no  more, 
Nor  sees  its  Lord  in  the  homeless  poor. 
Everywhere  is  the  grasping  hand, 
And  eager  adding  of  land  to  land  ; 
And  earth,  which  seemed   to  the   fathers 

meant 

But  as  a  pilgrim's  wayside  tent,  — 
A  nightly  shelter  to  fold  away 
When  the  Lord  should  call  at  the  break  of 

day, — 

Solid  and  steadfast  seems  to  be, 
And  Time  has  forgotten  Eternity  ! 

But  fresh  and  green  from  the  rotting  roots 
Of  primal  forests  the  young  growth  shoots  ; 
From  the  death  of  the  old  the  new  proceeds, 
And  the  life  of  truth  from  the  rot  of  creeds: 
On  the  ladder  of  God,  which  upward  leads, 
The  steps  of  progress  are  human  needs. 
For  His  jndgments  still  are  a  mighty  deep, 
And  the  eyes  of  His  providence  never  sleep: 


When  the  night  is  darkest  He  gives   the 

morn  ; 
When   the  famine  is  sorest,  the  wine  and 


In  the  church  of  the  wilderness  Edwards 

wrought, 

Shaping  his  creed  at  the  forge  of  thought ; 
And  with  Thor's  own  hammer  welded  and 

bent 

The  iron  links  of  his  argument, 
Which  strove  to  grasp  in  its  mighty  span 
The  purpose  of  God  and  the  fate  of  man  ! 
Yet  faithful  still,  in  his  daily  round 
To  the    weak,  and  the  poor,  and   sin-sick 

found, 

The  schoolman's  lore  and  the  casuist's  art 
Drew   warmth  and  life  from   his   fervent 

heart. 

Had  he  not  seen  in  the  solitudes 
Of  his  deep  and  dark  Northampton  woods 
A  vision  of  love  about  him  fall  ? 
Not  the    blinding   splendor  which   fell  on 

Saul, 

But  the  tenderer  glory  that  rests  on  them 
Who  walk  in  the  New  Jerusalem, 
Where  never  the  sun  nor  moon  are  known, 
But  the  Lord  and  His  love  are  the  light 

alone  ! 

And  watching  the  sweet,  still  countenance 
Of  the  wife  of  his  bosom  rapt  in  trance, 
Had  he  not  treasured  each  broken  word 
Of  the  mystical  wonder  seen  and  heard  ; 
And  loved  the  beautiful  dreamer  more 
That  thus  to  the  desert  of  earth  she  bore 
Clusters  of  Eshcol  from  Canaan's  shore  ? 

As  the  barley- winnower,  holding  with  pain 
Aloft  in  waiting  his  chaff  and  grain, 
Joyfully  welcomes  the  far-off  breeze 
Sounding  the  pine-tree's  slender  keys, 
So  he  who  had  waited  long  to  hear 
The  sound  of  the  Spirit  drawing  near, 
Like  that  which  the  son  of  Iddo  heard 
When    the    feet     of    angels    the    myrtles 

stirred, 

Felt  the  answer  of  prayer,  at  last, 
As  over  his  church  the  afflatus  passed, 
Breaking  its  sleep  as  breezes  break 
To  sun-bright  ripples  a  stagnant  lake. 

At  first  a  tremor  of  silent  fear, 
The  creep  of  the  flesh  at  danger  near, 
A  vague  foreboding  and  discontent, 
Over  the  hearts  of  the  people  went. 


THE   PREACHER 


All  nature  warned  in  sounds  and  signs  : 
The  wind  in  the  tops  of  the  forest  pines 
In  the  name  of  the  Highest  called  to  prayer, 
As  the  muezzin  calls  from  the  minaret  stair. 
Through  ceiled  chambers  of  secret  sin 
Sudden  and  strong  the  light  shone  in  ; 
A  guilty  sense  of  his  neighbor's  needs 
Startled  the  man  of  title-deeds  ; 
The  trembling  hand  of  the  worldling  shook 
The  dust  of  years  from  the  Holy  Book  ; 
And  the  psalms  of  David,  forgotten  long, 
Took  the  place  of  the  scoffer's  song. 

The  impulse  spread  like  the  outward  course 
Of  waters  moved  by  a  central  force  ; 
The  tide  of  spiritual  life  rolled  down 
From  inland  mountains  to  seaboard  town. 

Prepared  and  ready  the  altar  stands 
Waiting  the  prophet's  outstretched  hands 
And  prayer  availing,  to  downward  call 
The  fiery  answer  in  view  of  all. 
Hearts  are  like  wax  in  the  furnace  ;  who 
Shall   mould,    and   shape,  and   cast   them 

anew  ? 

Lo  !  by  the  Merrimac  Whitefield  stands 
In  the  temple   that   never    was  made   by 

hands,  — 

Curtains  of  azure,  and  crystal  wall, 
And  dome  of  the  sunshine  over  all  — 
A  homeless  pilgrim,  with  dubious  name 
Blown  about  on  the  winds  of  fame  ; 
Now  as  an  angel  of  blessing  classed, 
And  now  as  a  mad  enthusiast. 
Called  in  his  youth  to  sound  and  gauge 
The  moral  lapse  of  his  race  and  age, 
And,  sharp  as  truth,  the  contrast  draw 
Of  human  frailty  and  perfect  law  ; 
Possessed  by  the  one  dread  thought  that 

lent 

Its  goad  to  his  fiery  temperament, 
Up  and  down  the  world  he  went, 
A  John  the  Baptist  crying,  Repent  ! 

No  perfect  whole  can  our  nature  make  ; 
Here  or  there  the  circle  will  break  ; 
The  orb  of  life  as  it  takes  the  light 
On  one  side  leaves  the  other  in  night. 
Never  was  saint  so  good  and  great 
As  to  give  no  chance  at  St.  Peter's  gate 
For  the  plea  of  the  Devil's  advocate. 
So,  incomplete  by  his  being's  law, 
The  marvellous  preacher  had  his  flaw  ; 
With  step  unequal,  and  lame  with  faults, 
His  shade  on  the  path  of  History  halts. 


Wisely  and  well  said  the  Eastern  bard  : 
P^ear  is  easy,  but  love  is  hard,  — 
Easy  to  glow  with  the  Santon's  rage, 
And  walk  ~>,\  the  Meccan  pilgrimage  ; 
But  he  is  greatest  and  best  who  can 
Worship  Allah  by  loving  man. 

Tims  he,  —  to  whom,  in  the  painful  stress 
Of  zeal  on  fire  from  its  own  excess, 
Heaven  seemed  so  vast  and  earth  so  small 
That  man  was  nothing,  since  God  was  all,  — 
Forgot,  as  the  best  at  times  have  done, 
That  the  love  of  the  Lord  and  of  man  are  one. 

Little  to  him  whose  feet  unshod 
The  thorny  path  of  the  desert  trod, 
Careless  of  pain,  so  it  led  to  God, 
Seemed  the  hunger-pang  and  the  poor  man's 

wrong, 

The  weak  ones  trodden  beneath  the  strong. 
Should  the  worm  be  chooser?  —  the  clay 

withstand 
The  shaping  will  of  the  potter's  hand  ? 

In  the  Indian  fable  Arjoon  hears 
The  scorn  of  a  god  rebuke  his  fears  : 
"  Spare  thy  pity  !  "  Krishna  saith  ; 
"  Not  in  thy  sword  is  the  power  of  death  ! 
All  is  illusion,  — loss  but  seems  ; 
Pleasure  and  pain  are  only  dreams  ; 
Who  deems  he  slayeth  doth  not  kill  ; 
Who  counts  as  slain  is  living  still. 
Strike,  nor  fear  thy  blow  is  crime  ; 
Nothing  dies  but  the  cheats  of  time  ; 
Slain  or  slayer,  small  the  odds 
To  each,  immortal  as  Indra's  gods  ! " 

So  by  Savannah's  banks  of  shade, 
The  stones  of  his  mission  the  preacher  laid 
On  the  heart  of  the  negro  crushed  and  rent, 
And  made  of  his  blood  the  wall's  cement  ; 
Bade  the  slave-ship  speed    from  coast    to 

coast, 

Fanned  by  the  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost  ; 
And  begged,  for  the  love  of  Christ,  the  gold 
Coined  from  the  hearts  in  its  groaning  hold. 
What  could  it  matter,  more  or  less 
Of  stripes,  and  hunger,  and  weariness  ? 
Living  or  dying,  bond  or  free, 
What  was  time  to  eternity  ? 

Alas  for  the  preacher's  cherished  schemes  ! 
Mission  and  church  are  now  but  dreams  ; 
Nor  prayer  nor  fasting  availed  the  plan 
To  honor  God  through  the  wrong  of  man. 


72 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Of  all  his  labors  no  trace  remains 

Save  the    bondman    lifting    his    hands    in 

chains. 

The  woof  he  wove  in  the  righteous  warp 
Of  freedom-loving  Oglethorpe 
Clothes  with  curses  the  goodly  land, 
Changes  its  greenness  and  bloom  to  sand  ; 
And  a  century's  lapse  reveals  once  more 
The  slave-ship  stealing  to  Georgia's  shore. 
Father  of  Light  !  how  blind  is  he 
Who  sprinkles  the  altar  he  rears  to  Thee 
With  the  blood  and  tears  of  humanity  ! 

He  erred  :  shall    we    count    His    gifts    as 

naught  ? 

Was  the  work  of  God  in  him  unwrought  ? 
The  servant  may  through  his  deafness  err, 
And  blind  may  be  God's  messenger  ; 
But  the  errand  is  sure  they  go  upon,  — 
The  word  is  spoken,  the  deed  is  done. 
Was  the  Hebrew  temple  less  fair  and  good 
That  Solomon  bowed  to  gods  of  wood  ? 
For  his  tempted  heart  and  wandering  feet, 
Were  the  songs  of  David    less    pure  and 

sweet  ? 

So  in  light  and  shadow  the  preacher  went, 
God's  erring  and  human  instrument  ; 
And  the    hearts   of   the  people  where    he 

passed 

Swayed  as  the  reeds  sway  in  the  blast, 
Under  the  spell  of  a  voice  which  took 
In  its  compass  the  flow  of  Siloa's  brook, 
And  the  mystical  chime  of  the  bells  of  gold 
On  the  ephod's  hem  of  the  priest  of  old,  — 
Now  the  roll  of  thunder,  and  now  the  awe 
Of  the  trumpet  heard  in  the  Mount  of  Law. 

A  solemn  fear  on  the  listening  crowd 
Fell  like  the  shadow  of  a  cloud. 
The  sailor  reeling  from  out  the  ships 
Whose  masts  stood  thick  in  the  river-slips 
Felt  the  jest  and  the  curse  die  on  his  lips. 
Listened  the  fisherman  rude  and  hard, 
The  calker  rough  from  the  builder's  yard  ; 
The  man  of  the  market  left  his  load, 
The  teamster  leaned  on  his  bending  goad, 
The  maiden,  and  youth  beside  her,  felt 
Their  hearts  in  a  closer  union  melt, 
And  saw  the  flowers  of  their  love  in  bloom 
Down  the  endless  vistas  of  life  to  come. 
Old  age  sat  feebly  brushing  away 
From  his  ears  the  scanty  locks  of  gray  ; 
And  careless  boyhood,  living  the  free 
Unconscious  life  of  bird  and  tree, 
Suddenly  wakened  to  a  sense 


Of  sin  and  its  guilty  consequence. 
It  was  as  if  an  angel's  voice 
Called  the  listeners  up  for  their  final  choice  ; 
As  if  a  strong  hand  rent  apart 
The  veils  of  sense  from  soul  and  heart, 
Showing  in  light  ineffable 
The  joys  of  heaven  and  woes  of  hell  ! 
All  about  in  the  misty  air 
The  hills  seemed  kneeling  in  silent  prayer; 
The  rustle  of  leaves,  the  moaning  sedge, 
The  water's  lap  on  its  gravelled  edge, 
The  wailing  pines,  and,  far  and  faint, 
The  wood-dove's  note  of  sad  complaint,  — 
To  the  solemn  voice  of  the  preacher  lent 
An  undertone  as  of  low  lament  ; 
And  the  rote  of  the  sea  from  its  sandy  coast, 
On  the  easterly  wind,  now  heard,  now  lost, 
Seemed  the  murmurous  sound  of  the  judg 
ment  host. 

Yet  wise  men  doubted,  and  good  men  wept, 
As  that  storm  of  passion  above  them  swept, 
And,  comet-like,  adding  flame  to  flame, 
The  priests  of  the  new  Evangel  came,  — 
Davenport,  flashing  upon  the  crowd, 
Charged  like  summer's  electric  cloud, 
Now  holding  the  listener  still  as  death 
With  terrible  warnings  under  breath, 
Now  shouting  for  joy,  as  if  he  viewed 
The  vision  of  Heaven's  beatitude  ! 
And  Celtic  Tennant,  his  long  coat  bound 
Like  a  monk's  with  leathern  girdle  round, 
Wild  with  the  toss  of  unshorn  hair, 
And  wringing  of  hands,  and  eyes  aglare, 
Groaning  under  the  world's  despair  ! 
Grave  pastors,  grieving  their  flocks  to  lose, 
Prophesied  to  the  empty  pews 
That  gourds  would  wither,  and  mushrooms 

die, 

And  noisiest  fountains  run  soonest  dry, 
Like  the  spring  that  gushed  in  Newbury 

Street, 

Under  the  tramp  of  the  earthquake's  feet, 
A  silver  shaft  in  the  air  and  light, 
For  a  single  day,  then  lost  in  night, 
Leaving  only,  its  place  to  tell, 
Sandy  fissure  and  sulphurous  smell. 
With  zeal  wing-clipped  and  white-heat  cool, 
Moved  by  the  spirit  in  grooves  of  rule, 
No    longer     harried,    and     cropped,    and 

fleeced, 

Flogged  by  sheriff  and  cursed  by  prieet, 
But  by  wiser  counsels  left  at  ease 
To  settle  quietly  on  his  lees, 
And,  self-concentred,  to  count  as  done 


THE   PREACHER 


73 


The  work  which  his  fathers  well  begun, 
In  silent  protest  of  letting  alone, 
The  Quaker  kept  the  way  of  his  own,  — 
A  non-conductor  among  the  wires, 
With  coat  of  asbestos  proof  to  fires. 
And  quite  unable  to  mend  his  pace 
To  catch  the  falling  manna  of  grace, 
He  hugged  the  closer  his  little  store 
Of  faith,  and  silently  prayed  for  more. 
And  vague  of  creed  and  barren  of  rite, 
But  holding,  as  in  his  Master's  sight, 
Act  and  thought  to  the  inner  light, 
The  round  of  his  simple  duties  walked, 
And  strove  to  live  what  the  others  talked. 

And  who  shall  marvel  if  evil  went 
Step  by  step  with  the  good  intent, 
And  with  love  and  meekness,  side  by  side, 
Lust  of  the  flesh  and  spiritual  pride  ?  — 
That  passionate  longings  and  fancies  vain 
Set  the  heart  on  fire  and  crazed  the  brain  ? 
That  over  the  holy  oracles 
Folly  sported  with  cap  and  bells  ? 
That  goodly  women  and  learned  men 
Marvelling  told  with  tongue  and  pen 
How  unweaued  children  chirped  like  birds 
Texts  of  Scripture  and  solemn  words, 
Like  the  infant  seers  of  the  rocky  glens 
In  the  Puy  de  Dome  of  wild  Cevennes  : 
Or  baby  Lamas  who  pray  and  preach 
From  Tartar  cradles  in  Buddha's  speech  ? 

In  the  war  which  Truth  or  Freedom  wages 
With  impious  fraud  and  the  wrong  of  ages, 
Hate  and  malice  and  self-love  mar 
The  notes  of  triumph  with  painful  jar, 
And  the  helping  angels  turn  aside 
Their  sorrowing  faces  the  shame  to  hide. 
Never  on  custom's  oiled  grooves 
The  world  to  a  higher  level  moves, 
But  grates  and  grinds  with  friction  hard 
On  granite  boulder  and  flinty  shard. 
The  heart  must  bleed  before  it  feels, 
The  pool  be  troubled  before  it  heals  ; 
Ever  by  losses  the  right  must  gain, 
Every  good  have  its  birth  of  pain  ; 
The  active  Virtues  blush  to  find 
The  Vices  wearing  their  badge  behind, 
And  Graces  and  Charities  feel  the  fire 
Wherein  the  sins  of  the  age  expire  ; 
The  fiend  still  rends  as  of  old  he  rent 
The  tortured  body  from  which  he  went. 

But  Time  tests  all.     In  the  over-drift 
And  flow  of  the  Nile,  with  its  annual  gift, 


Who  cares  for  the  Hadji's  relics  sunk  ? 
Who   thinks  of   the  drowned  -  out  Coptic 

monk  ? 

The  tide  that  loosens  the  temple's  stones, 
And  scatters  the  sacred  ibis-bones, 
Drives  away  from  the  valley-land 
That  Arab  robber,  the  wand  "ring  sand, 
Moistens  the  fields  that  know  no  rain, 
Fringes  the  desert  with  belts  of  grain, 
And  bread  to  the  sower  brings  again. 
So  the  flood  of  emotion  deep  and  strong 
Troubled  the  land  as  it  swept  along, 
But  left  a  result  of  holier  lives, 
Tenderer  mothers  and  worthier  wives. 
The  husband  and  father  whose  children  fled 
And  sad  wife  wept  wrhen  his  drunken  tread 
Frightened  peace  from  his  roof-tree's  shade, 
And  a  rock  of  offence  his  hearthstone  made, 
In  a  strength  that  was  not  his  own  began 
To  rise  from  the  brute's  to  the  plane  of 

man. 

Old  friends  embraced,  long  held  apart 
By  evil  counsel  and  pride  of  heart  ; 
And  penitence  saw  through  misty  tears, 
In  the  bow  of  hope  on  its  cloud  of  fears, 
The  promise  of  Heaven's  eternal  years,  — 
The   peace    of    God   for   the    world's   an 
noy, — 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  oil  of  joy  ! 

Under  the  church  of  Federal  Street, 
Under  the  tread  of  its  Sabbath  feet, 
Walled  about  by  its  basement  stones, 
Lie  the  marvellous  preacher's  bones. 
No  saintly  honors  to  them  are  shown, 
No  sign  nor  miracle  have  they  known  ; 
But  he  who  passes  the  ancient  church 
Stops  in  the  shade  of  its  belfry-porch, 
And  ponders  the  wonderful  life  of  him 
Who  lies  at  rest  in  that  charnel  dim. 
Long  shall  the  traveller  strain  his  eye 
From  the  railroad  car,  as  it  plunges  by, 
And  the  vanishing  town  behind  him  search 
For   the    slender   spire    of   the  Whitefield 

Church  ; 
And   feel   for  one   moment   the  ghosts  ot 

trade, 

And  fashion,  and  folly,  and  pleasure  laid, 
By  the  thought  of  that  life  of  pure  intent, 
That  voice  of  warning  yet  eloquent, 
Of  one  on  the  errands  of  angels  sent. 
And  if  where  he  labored  the  flood  of  sin 
Like  a  tide  from  the  harbor-bar  sets  in, 
And  over  a  life  of  time  and  sense 
The  church-spires  lift  their  vain  defence, 


74 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY    POEMS 


As  if  to  scatter  the  bolts  of  God 
With  the  points  of  Calvin's  thunder-rod,  — 
Still,  as  the  gem  of  its  civic  crown, 
Precious  beyond  the  world's  renown, 
His  memory  hallows  the  ancient  town  ! 


THE   TRUCE   OF   PISCATAQUA 

In  the  winter  of  1675-76,  the  Eastern  Indi 
ans,  who  had  been  making-  war  upon  the  New 
Hampshire  settlements,  were  so  reduced  in 
numbers  by  fighting1  and  famine  that  they 
agreed  to  a  peace  with  Major  Waldron  at 
Dover  ;  but  the  peace  was  broken  in  the  fall 
of  1076.  The  famous  chief,  Squando,  was  the 
principal  negotiator  on  the  part  of  the  savages. 
He  had  taken  up  the  hatchet  to  revenge  the 
brutal  treatment  of  his  child  by  drunken  white 
sailors,  which  caused  its  death. 

It  not  unfrequently  happened  during  the 
Border  wars  that  young  white  children  were 
adopted  by  their  Indian  captors,  and  so  kindly 
treated  that  they  were  unwilling1  to  leave  the 
free,  wild  life  of  the  woods ;  and  in  some  in 
stances  they  utterly  refused  to  go  back  with 
their  parents  to  their  old  homes  and  civilization. 

RAZE  these  long  blocks  of  brick  and  stone, 
These  huge  mill-monsters  overgrown  ; 
Blot  out  the  humbler  piles  as  well, 
Where,  moved  like  living  shuttles,  dwell 
The  weaving  genii  of  the  bell  ; 
Tear  from  the  wild  Cocheco's  track 
The  dams  that  hold  its  torrents  back  ; 
And  let  the  loud-rejoicing  fall 
Plunge,  roaring,  down  its  rocky  wall  ; 
And  let  the  Indian's  paddle  play 
On  the  unbridged  Piscataqua  ! 
Wide  over  hill  and  valley  spread 
Once  more  the  forest,  dusk  and  dread, 
With  here  and  there  a  clearing  cnt 
From  the  walled  shadows  round  it  shut  ; 
Each  with  its  farm-house  br.ilded  rude, 
By  English  yeoman  squared  and  hewed, 
And  the  grim,  flankered  block-house  bound 
With  bristling  palisades  around. 
So,  haply  shall  before  thine  eyes 
The  dusty  veil  of  centuries  rise, 
The  old,  strange  scenery  overlay 
The  tamer  pictures  of  to-day, 
While,  like  the  actors  in  a  play, 
Pass  in  their  ancient  guise  along 
The  figures  of  my  border  song  : 
What  time  beside  Cocheco's  flood 
The  white  man  and  the  red  man  stood, 
With  words  of  peace  and  brotherhood  ; 


When  passed  the  sacred  calumet 
From  lip  to  lip  with  fire-draught  wet, 
And,    puffed    in    scorn,    the    peace-pipe's 

smoke 
Through    the     gray    beard     of    Waldron 

broke, 

And  Squando's  voice,  in  suppliant  plea 
For  mercy,  struck  the  haughty  key 
Of  one  who  held,  in  any  fate, 
His  native  pride  inviolate  ! 

"  Let  your  ears  be  opened  wide  ! 
He  who  speaks  has  never  lied. 
Waldron  of  Piscataqua, 
Hear  what  Squando  has  to  say  ! 

"  Squando  shuts  his  eyes  and  sees, 
Far  off,  Saco's  hemlock-trees. 
In  his  wigwam,  still  as  stone, 
Sits  a  woman  all  alone, 

•''Wampum  beads  and  birchen  strands 
Dropping  from  her  careless  hands, 
Listening  ever  for  the  fleet 
Patter  of  a  dead  child's  feet ! 

"  When  the  moon  a  year  ago 
Told  the  flowers  the  time  to  blow, 
In  that  lonely  wigwam  smiled 
Menewee,  our  little  child. 

"  Ere  that  moon  grew  thin  and  old, 
He  was  lying  still  and  cold  ; 
Sent  before  us,  weak  and  small, 
When  the  Master  did  not  call  ! 

"  On  his  little  grave  I  lay  ; 
Three  times  went  and  came  the  day; 
Thrice  above  me  blazed  the  noon, 
Thrice  upon  me  wept  the  moon. 

"  In  the  third  night-watch  I  heard, 
Far  and  low,  a  spirit- bird  ; 
Very  mournful,  very  wild, 
Sang  the  totem  of  my  child. 

"  '  Menewee,  poor  Menewee, 
Walks  a  path  he  cannot  see  : 
Let  the  white  man's  wigwam  lighi 
With  its  blaze  his  steps  aright. 

"«  All-uncalled,  he  dares  not  show 
Empty  hands  to  Manito  : 
Better  gifts  he  cannot  bear 
Than  the  scalps  his  slayers  wear ' 


THE   TRUCE   OF   PISCATAQUA 


75 


"  All  the  while  the  totem  sang1, 
Lightning  blazed  and  thunder  rang  ; 
And  a  black  cloud,  reaching  high, 
Pulled  the  white  moon  from  the  sky. 

"  I,  the  medicine-man,  whose  ear 
All  that  spirits  hear  can  hear,  — 
I,  whose  eyes  are  wide  to  see 
All  the  things  that  are  to  be,  — 

"  Well  I  knew  the  dreadful  signs 
In  the  whispers  of  the  pines, 
In  the  river  roaring  loud, 
In  the  mutter  of  the  cloud. 

"  At  the  breaking  of  the  day, 
From  the  grave  I  passed  away  ; 
Flowers    bloomed    round   me,    birds 

glad, 
But  my  heart  was  hot  and  mad. 

"There  is  rust  on  Squando's  knife 
From  the  warm,  red  springs  of  life  ; 
On  the  funeral  hemlock-trees 
Many  a  scalp  the  totem  sees. 

"  Blood  for  blood  !     But  evermore 
Squando's  heart  is  sad  and  sore  ; 
And  his  poor  squaw  waits  at  home 
For  the  feet  that  never  come  ! 

"  Waldron  of  Cocheco,  hear  ! 
Squando  speaks,  who  laughs  at  fear  ; 
Take  the  captives  he  has  ta'en  ; 
Let  the  land  have  peace  again  ! " 

As  the  words  died  on  his  tongue, 
Wide  apart  his  warriors  swung  ; 
Parted,  at  the  sign  he  gave, 
Right  and  left,  like  Egypt's  wave. 

And,  like  Israel  passing  free 
Through  the  prophet-charmed  sea, 
Captive  mother,  wife,  and  child 
Through  the  dusky  terror  filed. 

One  alone,  a  little  maid, 
Middle  way  her  steps  delayed, 
Glancing,  with  quick,  troubled  sight, 
Round  about  from  red  to  white. 

Then  his  hand  the  Indian  laid 
On  the  little  maiden's  head, 
Lightly  from  her  forehead  fair 
Smoothing  back  her  .yellow  hair. 


sang 


"  Gift  or  favor  ask  I  none  ; 
What  I  have  is  all  my  own  : 
Never  yet  the  birds  have  sung, 
'  Squando  hath  a  beggar's  tongue.' 

"  Yet  for  her  who  waits  at  home, 
For  the  dead  who  cannot  come, 
Let  the  little  Gold-hair  be 
In  the  place  of  Menewee  ! 

"  Mishanock,  my  little  star  ! 
Come  to  Saco's  pines  afar  ; 
Where  the  sad  one  waits  at  home, 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  come  1 " 

"What!"     quoth     Waldron,     "leave 

child 

Christian-born  to  heathens  wild  ? 
As  God  lives,  from  Satan's  hand 
I  will  pluck  her  as  a  brand  ! " 

"  Hear  me,  white  man  ! "  Squando  cried  ; 
"  Let  the  little  one  decide. 
Wequashim,  my  moonlight,  say, 
Wilt  thou  go  with  me,  or  stay  ?  " 

Slowly,  sadly,  half  afraid, 

Half  regretfully,  the  maid 

Owned  the  ties  of  blood  and  race,  — 

Turned  from  Squando's  pleading  face. 

Not  a  word  the  Indian  spoke, 
But  his  wampum  chain  he  broke, 
And  the  beaded  wonder  hung 
On  that  neck  so  fair  and  young. 

Silence-shod,  as  phantoms  seem 
In  the  marches  of  a  dream, 
Single-filed,  the  grim  array 
Through  the  pine-trees  wound  away. 

Doubting,  trembling,  sore  amazed, 
Through  her  tears  the  young  child  gazed 
"  God  preserve  her  !  "  Waldron  said  ; 
"  Satan  hath  bewitched  the  maid  !  " 

Years  went  and  came.     At  close  of  day 
Singing  came  a  child  from  play, 
Tossing  from  her  loose-locked  head 
Gold  in  sunshine,  brown  in  shade. 

Pride  was  in  the  mother's  look, 
But  her  head  she  gravely  shook, 
And  with  lips  that  fondly  smiled 
Feigned  to  chide  her  truant  child. 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Unabashed,  the  maid  began  : 
"  Up  and  down  the  brook  I  ran, 
Where,  beneath  the  bank  so  steep, 
Lie  the  spotted  trout  asleep. 

"  '  Chip  ! '  went  squirrel  on  the  wall, 
After  rne  I  heard  him  call, 
And  the  cat-bird  on  the  tree 
Tried  his  best  to  mimic  me. 

"  Where  the  hemlocks  grew  so  dark 
That  I  stopped  to  look  and  hark, 
On  a  log,  with  feather-hat, 
By  the  path,  an  Indian  sat. 

"  Then  I  cried,  and  ran  away  ; 
But  he  called,  and  bade  me  stay ; 
And  his  voice  was  good  and  mild 
As  my  mother's  to  her  child. 

"  And  he  took  my  wampum  chain, 
Looked  and  looked  it  o'er  again  ; 
Gave  me  berries,  and,  beside, 
On  my  neck  a  plaything  tied." 

Straight  the  mother  stooped  to  see 
What  the  Indian's  gift  might  be. 
On  the  braid  of  wampum  hung, 
Lo  !  a  cross  of  silver  swung. 

Well  she  knew  its  graven  sign, 
Squando's  bird  and  totem  pine  ; 
And,  a  mirage  of  the  brain, 
Flowed  her  childhood  back  again. 

Flashed  the  roof  the  sunshine  through, 
Into  space  the  walls  outgrew  ; 
On  the  Indian's  wigwam-mat, 
Blossom-crowned,  again  she  sat. 

Cool  she  felt  the  west- wind  blow, 
In  her  ear  the  pines  sang  low, 
A-nd,  like  links  from  out  a  chain, 
Dropped  the  years  of  care  and  pain. 

From  the  outward  toil  and  din, 
From  the  griefs  that  gnaw  within, 
To  the  freedom  of  the  woods 
Called  the  birds,  and  winds,  and  floods. 

Well,  0  painful  minister  ! 
Watch  thy  flock,  but  blame  not  her, 
If  her  ear  grew  sharp  to  hear 
All  their  voices  whispering  near. 


Blame  her  not,  as  to  her  soul 
All  the  desert's  glamour  stole, 
That  a  tear  for  childhood's  loss 
Dropped  upon  the  Indian's  cross. 

When,  that  night,  the  Book  was  read, 
And  she  bowed  her  widowed  head, 
And  a  prayer  for  each  loved  name 
Rose  like  incense  from  a  flame, 

With  a  hope  the  creeds  forbid 
In  her  pitying  bosom  hid, 
To  the  listening  ear  of  Heaven 
Lo  !  the  Indian's  name  was  given. 

MY   PLAYMATE 

[When  written,   this    poem   bore    the   titl» 
Eleanor,  and  when  first  printed  The 


THE  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill, 
Their  song  was  soft  and  low  ; 

The  blossoms  in  the  sweet  May  wind 
Were  falling  like  the  snow. 

The  blossoms  drifted  at  our  feet, 
The  orchard  birds  sang  clear  ; 

The  sweetest  and  the  saddest  day 
It  seemed  of  all  the  year. 

For,  more  to  me  than  birds  or  flowers, 
My  playmate  left  her  home, 

And  took  with  her  the  laughing  spring, 
The  music  and  the  bloom. 

She  kissed  the  lips  of  kith  and  kin, 

She  laid  her  hand  in  mine  : 
What  more  could  ask  the  bashful  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

She  left  us  in  the  bloom  of  May  : 
The  constant  years  told  o'er 

Their  seasons  with  as  sweet  May  morns, 
But  she  came  back  no  more. 

I  walk,  with  noiseless  feet,  the  round 

Of  uneventful  years  ; 
Still  o'er  and  o'er  I  sow  the  spring 

And  reap  the  autumn  ears. 

She  lives  where  all  the  golden  year 

Her  summer  roses  blow  ; 
The  dusky  children  of  the  sun 

Before  her  come  and  go. 


COBBLER   KEEZAR'S  VISIOiM 


77 


There  haply  with  her  jewelled  hands 
She  smooths  her  silken  gown,  — 

No  more  the  homespun  lap  wherein 
I  shook  the  walnuts  down. 

The  wild  grapes  wait  us  by  the  brook, 

The  brown  nuts  on  the  hill, 
And  still  the  May-day  flowers  make  sweet 

The  woods  of  Follymill. 

The  lilies  blossom  in  the  pond, 

The  bird  builds  in  the  tree, 
The  dark  pines  sing  on  Ramoth  hill 

The  slow  song  of  the  sea. 

I  wonder  if  she  thinks  of  them, 
And  how  the  old  time  seems,  — 

If  ever  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 
Are  sounding  in  her  dreams. 

I  see  her  face,  I  hear  her  voice  ; 

Does  she  remember  mine  ? 
And  what  to  her  is  now  the  boy 

Who  fed  her  father's  kine  ? 

What  cares  she  that  the  orioles  build 

For  other  eyes  than  ours,  — 
That  other  hands  with  nuts  are  filled, 

And  other  laps  with  flowers  ? 

0  playmate  in  the  golden  time  ! 

Our  mossy  seat  is  green, 
Its  fringing  violets  blossom  yet, 

The  old  trees  o'er  it  lean. 

The  winds  so  sweet  with  birch  and  fern 

A  sweeter  memory  blow  ; 
A.nd  there  in  spring  the  veeries  sing 

The  song  of  long  ago. 

And  still  the  pines  of  Ramoth  wood 

Are  moaning  like  the  sea,  — 
The  moaning  of  the  sea  of  change 

Between  myself  and  thee  ! 


COBBLER   KEEZAR'S  VISION 

This  ballad  was  written  on  the  occasion  of  a 
Horticultural  Festival.  Cobbler  Keezar  was  a 
noted  character  among  the  first  settlers  in  the 
valley  of  the  Merrimac. 

THE  beaver  cut  his  timber 
With  patient  teeth  that  day, 


The  minks  were  fish-wards,  and  the  crows 
Surveyors  of  highway,  — 

When  Keezar  sat  on  the  hillside 

Upon  his  cobbler's  form, 
With  a  pan  of  coals  on  either  hand 

To  keep  his  waxed-ends  warm. 

And  there,  in  the  golden  weather, 

He  stitched  and  hammered  and  sung  ; 

In  the  brook  he  moistened  his  leather, 
In  the  pewter  mug  his  tongue. 

Well  knew  the  tough  old  Teuton 
Who  brewed  the  stoutest  ale, 

And  he  paid  the  good  wife's  reckoning 
In  the  coin  of  song  and  tale. 

The  songs  they  still  are  singing 

Who  dress  the  hills  of  vine, 
The  tales  that  haunt  the  Brocken 

And  whisper  down  the  Rhine. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 
The  swift  stream  wound  away, 

Through  birches  and  scarlet  maples 
Flashing  in  foam  and  spray,  — 

Down  on  the  sharp-horned  ledges 

Plunging  in  steep  cascade, 
Tossing  its  white-  maned  waters 

Against  the  hemlock's  shade. 

Woodsy  and  wild  and  lonesome, 

East  and  west  and  north  and  south  ; 

Only  the  village  of  fishers 
Down  at  the  river's  mouth  ; 

Only  here  and  there  a  clearing, 

With  its  farm-house  rude  and  new, 

And  tree-stumps,  swart  as  Indians, 
Where  the  scanty  harvest  grew. 

No  shout  of  home-bound  reapers, 

No  vintage-song  he  heard, 
And  on  the  green  no  dancing  feet 

The  merry  violin  stirred. 


"  Why  should  folk  be  glum,"  said 
"  When  Nature  herself  is  glad, 

And  the  painted  woods  are  laughing 
At  the  faces  so  sour  and  sad  ?  " 

Small  heed  had  the  careless  cobbler 
What  sorrow  of  heart  was  theirs 


78 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Who  travailed  in  pain  with  the  births  of 

God, 
And  planted  a  state  with  prayers,  — 

Hunting  of  witches  and  warlocks, 
Smiting  the  heathen  horde,  — 

One  hand  on  the  mason's  trowel, 
And  one  on  the  soldier's  sword  ! 

But  give  him  his  ale  and  cider, 

Give  him  his  pipe  and  song, 
Little  he  cared  for  Church  or  State, 

Or  the  balance  of  right  and  wrong. 

"  'T  is  work,  work,  work,"  he  muttered,  — 
"And  for  rest  a  snuffle  of  psalms  !  " 

lie  smote  on  his  leathern  apron 
With  his  brown  and  waxen  palms. 

"  Oh  for  the  purple  harvests 

Of  the  days  when  I  was  young  ! 

For  the  merry  grape-stained  maidens, 
And  the  pleasant  songs  they  sung  ! 

"  Oh  for  the  breath  of  vineyards, 

Of  apples  and  nuts  and  wine  ! 
For  an  oar  to  row  and  a  breeze  to  blow 

Down  the  grand  old  river  Rhine  !  " 

A  tear  in  his  blue  eye  glistened, 
And  dropped  on  his  beard  so  gray. 

"  Old,  old  am  I,"  said  Keezar, 

"  And  the  Rhine  flows  far  away  !  " 

But  a  cunning  man  was  the  cobbler  ; 

He    could    call    the     birds     from     the 

trees, 
Charm     the     black     snake     out     of     the 

ledges, 
And  bring  back  the  swarming  bees. 

All  the  virtues  of  herbs  and  metals, 
All  the  lore  of  the  woorls,  he  knew, 

And  the  arts  of  the  Old  World  mingled 
With  the  marvels  of  the  New. 

Well  he  knew  the  tricks  of  magic, 

And  the  lapstone  on  his  knee 
Had  the  gift  of  the  Mormon's  goggles 

Or  the  stone  of  Doctor  Dee. 

For  the  mighty  master  Agrippa 
Wrought  it  with  spell  and  rhyme 

From  a  fragment  of  mystic  moonstone 
In  the  tower  of  Nettesheim. 


To  a  cobbler  Minnesinger 

The  marvellous  stone  gave  he,  — 

And  he  gave  it,  in  turn,  to  Keezar, 
Who  brought  it  over  the  sea. 

He  held  up  that  mystic  lapstone, 

He  held  it  up  like  a  lens, 
And  he  counted  the  long  years  coming 

By  twenties  and  by  tens. 

"  One  hundred  years,"  quoth  Keezar, 

"  And  fifty  have  I  told  : 
Now  open  the  new  before  me, 

And  shut  me  out  the  old  ! " 

Like  a  cloud  of  mist,  the  blackness 

Rolled  from  the  magic  stone, 
And  a  marvellous  picture  mingled 

The  unknown  and  the  known. 

Still  ran  the  stream  to  the  river, 

And  river  and  ocean  joined  ; 
And  there  were  the  bluffs  and  the  blue  sea- 
line, 

And  cold  north  hills  behind. 

But  the  mighty  forest  was  broken 

By  many  a  steepled  town, 
By  many  a  white-walled  farm-house, 

And  many  a  garner  brown. 

Turning  a  score  of  mill-wheels, 
The  stream  no  more  ran  free  ; 

White  sails  on  the  winding  river, 
White  sails  011  the  far-off  sea. 

Below  in  the  noisy  village 

The  flags  were  floating  gay, 
And  shone  on  a  thousand  faces 

The  light  of  a  holiday. 

Swiftly  the  rival  ploughmen 

Turned  the  brown  earth  from  their  sharesj 
Here  were  the  farmer's  treasures, 

There  were  the  craftsman's  wares. 

Golden  the  goodvvife's  butter, 

Ruby  her  currant-wine  ; 
Grand  were  the  strutting  turkeys, 

Fat  were  the  beeves  and  swine. 

Yellow  and  red  were  the  apples, 
And  the  ripe  pears  russet-brown, 

And  the  peaches  had  stolen  blushes 
From  the  girls  who  shook  them  down. 


AMY   WENTWORTH 


And  with  blooms  of  hill  and  wild  wood, 

That  shame  the  toil  of  art, 
Mingled  the  gorgeous  blossoms 

Of  the  garden's  tropic  heart. 

"  What  is  it  I  see  ?  "  said  Keezar  : 

"  Am  I  here,  or  am  I  there  ? 
Is  it  a  fete  at  Bingen  ? 

Do  I  look  on  Frankfort  fair  ? 

"  But  where  are  the  clowns  and  puppets, 
And  imps  with  horns  and  tail  ? 

And  where  are  the  Rhenish  flagons  ? 
And  where  is  the  foaming  ale  ? 

"  Strange  things,  I  know,  will  happen,  — 
Strange  things  the  Lord  permits  ; 

But  that  droughty  folk  should  be  jolly 
Puzzles  my  poor  old  wits. 

"  Here  are  smiling  manly  faces, 
And  the  maiden's  step  is  gay  ; 

Nor  sad   by  thinking,  nor  mad  by  drink 
ing* 
Nor  mopes,  nor  fools,  are  they. 

"  Here  's  pleasure  without  regretting, 

And  good  without  abuse, 
The  holiday  and  the  bridal 

Of  beauty  and  of  use. 

"  Here  's  a  priest  and  there  is  a  Quaker, 

Do  the  cat  and  dog  agree  ? 
Have  they  burned  the  stocks  for  ovenwood  ? 

Have  they  cut  down  the  gallows-tree  V 

"  Would  the  old  folk  know  their  children  ? 

Would  they  own  the  graceless  town, 
With  never  a  ranter  to  worry 

And  never  a  witch  to  drown  ?  " 

Loud  laughed  the  cobbler  Keezar, 
Laughed  like  a  school-boy  gay  ; 

Tossing  his  arms  above  him, 
The  lapstone  rolled  away. 

It  rolled  down  the  rugged  hillside, 
It  spun  like  a  wheel  bewitched, 

It  plunged  through  the  leaning  willows, 
And  into  the  river  pitched. 

There,  in  the  deep,  dark  water, 

The  magic  stone  lies  still, 
Under  the  leaning  willows 

In  the  shadow  of  the  hill. 


But  oft  the  idle  fisher 

Sits  on  the  shadowy  bank, 
And  his  dreams  make  marvellous  pictures 

Where  the  wizard's  lapstoue  sank. 

And  still,  in  the  summer  twilights, 

When  the  river  seems  to  run 
Out  from  the  inner  glory, 

Warm  with  the  melted  sun, 

The  weary  mill-girl  lingers 

Beside  the  charmed  stream, 
And  the  sky  and  the  golden  water 

Shape  and  color  her  dream. 

Fair  wave  the  sunset  gardens, 

The  rosy  signals  fly  ; 
Her  homestead  beckons  from  the  cloud, 

And  love  goes  sailing  by. 


AMY  WENTWORTH 

TO    WILLIAM    BRADFORD 

As  they  who  watch  by  sick-beds  find  relief 
Unwittingly  from  the  great  stress  of  grief 
And  anxious  care,  in  fantasies  outwrought 
From  the  hearth's  embers  flickering  low,  or 

caught 
From  whispering  wind,  or  tread  of  passing 

feet, 

Or  vagrant  memory  calling  up  some  sweet 
Snatch  of  old  song  or  romance,  whence  or 

why 

They  scarcely  know  or  ask,  —  so,  thou  and  I, 
Nursed  in  the  faith  that    Truth   alone    is 

strong 

In  the  endurance  which  outwearies  Wrong, 
With  meek  persistence  baffling  brutal  force, 
And  trusting  God  against  the  universe, — 
We,  doomed  to  watch  a  strife  we  may  not 

share 
With    other    weapons    than    the    patriot's 

prayer, 
Yet  owning,  with  full  hearts  and  moistened 

eyes, 

The  awful  beauty  of  self-sacrifice, 
And  wrung  by  keenest  sympathy  for  all 
Who  give  their  loved  ones  for  the  living  wall 
'Twixt  law  and  treason,  —  in  this  evil  day 
May  haply  find,  through  automatic  play 
Of  pen  and  pencil,  solace  to  our  pain, 
And  hearten  others  with  the  strength  we 

gain. 


8o 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEM^, 


I  know  it  has  been  said  our  times  require 
No  play  of  art,  nor  dalliance  with  the  lyre, 
No  weak  essay  with  Fancy's  chloroform 
To  calm  the  hot,  mad  pulses  of  the  storm, 
But  the  stern  war-blast  rather,  such  as  sets 
The  battle's  teeth  of  serried  bayonets, 
And  pictures  grim  as  Vernet's.     Yet  with 

these 
Some  softer  tints  may  blend,   and  milder 

keys 
Relieve    the  sfcorm-s tunned    ear.      Let    us 

keep  sweet, 

If  so  we  may,  our  hearts,  even  while  we  eat 
The  bitter  harvest  of  our  own  device 
And  half  a  century's  moral  cowardice. 
As  Niirnberg  sang  while  Wittenberg  defied, 
And  Kranach  painted  by  his  Luther's  side, 
And  through  the  war-march  of  the  Puritan 
The  silver  stream  of  Marvell's  music  ran, 
So  let  the  household  melodies  be  sung, 
The  pleasant  pictures  on  the  wall  be  hung,  — 
So  let  us  hold  against  the  hosts  of  night 
And  slavery  all  our  vantage-ground  of  light. 
Let  Treason  boast  its  savagery,  and  shake 
From  its  flag-folds  its  symbol  rattlesnake, 
Nurse  its  fine  arts,  lay  human  skins  in  tan, 
And  carve  its  pipe-bowls  from  the  bones  of 

man, 

And  make  the  tale  of  Fijian  banquets  dull 
By  drinking  whiskey  from  a  loyal  skull,  — 
But  let  us  guard,  till  this  sad  war  shall  cease, 
(God  grant  it  soon  !)  the  graceful  arts  of 

peace  : 

No  foes  are  conquered  who  the  victors  teach 
Their  vandal  manners  and  barbaric  speech. 

And  while,  with  hearts  of  thankfulness,  we 

bear 

Of  the  great  common  burden  our  full  share, 
Let  none  upbraid  us  that  the  waves  entice 
Thy  sea-dipped  pencil,  or  some  quaint  de 
vice, 

Rhythmic  and  sweet,  beguiles  my  pen  away 
From  the  sharp  strifes  and  sorrows  of  to 
day. 

Thus,  while  the  east-wind  keen  from  Lab 
rador 

Sings  in  the  leafless  elms,  and  from  the  shore 
Of  the  great  sea  comes  the  monotonous  roar 
Of  the  long-breaking  surf,  and  all  the  sky 
Is  gray  with  cloud,  home-bound  and  dull,  I 

try 

To  time  a  simple  legend  to  the  sounds 
Of  winds  in  the  woods,  and  waves  on  peb 
bled  bounds,  — 


A  song  for  oars  to  chime  with,  such  as  might 
Be  sung  by  tired  sea-painters,  who  at  night 
Look  from  their  hemlock  camps,  by  quiet 

cove 
Or  beach,  moon-lighted,  on  the  waves  they 

love. 
(So  hast  thou  looked,  when  level  sunset 

lay 

On  the  calm  bosom  of  some  Eastern  bay, 
And  all  the  spray-moist  rocks  and  waves 

that  rolled 
Up  the  white  sand-slopes  flashed  with  ruddy 

gold.) 

Something  it  has  —  a  flavor  of  the  sea, 
And  the  sea's  freedom  —  which  reminds  of 

thee. 

Its  faded  picture,  dimly  smiling  down 
From  the   blurred  fresco   of    the    ancient 

town, 
I  have    not  touched  with  warmer  tints  in 

vain, 
If,  in   this    dark,  sad   year,  it   steals   one 

thought  from  pain. 


Her  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys 

They  dance  so  light  along  ; 
The  bloom  upon  her  parted  lips 

Is  sweeter  than  the  song. 

O  perfumed  suitor,  spare  thy  smiles  • 
Her  thoughts  are  not  of  thee  ; 

She  better  loves  the  salted  wind, 
The  voices  of  the  sea. 

Her  heart  is  like  an  outbound  ship 

That  at  its  anchor  swings  ; 
The  murmur  of  the  stranded  shell 

Is  in  the  song  she  sings. 

She  sings,  and,  smiling,  hears  her  praise 
But  dreams  the  while  of  one 

Who  watches  from  his  sea-blown  deck 
The  icebergs  in  the  sun. 

She  questions  i!4  the  winds  that  blow, 

And  every  fog-wreath  dim, 
And  bids  the  sea-birds  flying  north 

Bear  messages  to  him. 

She  speeds  them  with  the  thanks  of  men 

He  perilled  life  to  save, 
And  grateful  prayers  like  holy  oil 

To  smooth  for  him  the  wave. 


THE   COUNTESS 


Brown  Viking  of  the  fishing-smack  ! 

Fair  toast  of  all  the  town  !  — 
The  skipper's  jerkin  ill  beseems 

The  lady's  silken  gown  ! 

But  ne'er  shall  Amy  Wentworth  wear 

For  him  the  blush  of  diame 
Who  dares  to  set  his  manly  gifts 

Against  her  ancient  name. 

The  stream  is  brightest  at  its  spring, 

And  blood  is  not  like  wine  ; 
Nor  honored  less  than  he  who  heirs 

Is  he  who  founds  a  line. 

Full  lightly  shall  the  prize  be  won, 

If  love  be  Fortune's  spur  ; 
And  never  maiden  stoops  to  him 

Who  lifts  himself  to  her. 

Her  home  is  brave  in  Jaffrey  Street, 
With  stately  stairways  worn 

By  feet  of  old  Colonial  knights 
And  ladies  gentle-born. 

Still  green  about  its  ample  porch 

The  English  ivy  twines, 
Trained  back  to  show  in  English  oak 

The  herald's  carven  signs. 

And  on  her,  from  the  wainscot  old, 

Ancestral  faces  frown,  — 
And  this  has  worn  the  soldier's  sword, 

And  that  the  judge's  gown. 

But,  strong  of  will  and  proud  as  they, 

She  walks  the  gallery  floor 
As  if  she  trod  her  sailor's  deck 

By  stormy  Labrador  ! 

The  sweetbrier  blooms  on  Kittery-side, 
And  green  are  Eliot's  bowers  ; 

Her  garden  is  the  pebbled  beach, 
The  mosses  are  her  flowers. 

She  looks  across  the  harbor-bar 

To  see  the  white  gulls  fly  ; 
His  greeting  from  the  Northern  sea 

Is  in  their  clanging  cry. 

She    hums    a    song,    and    dreams    that 
he, 

As  in  its  romance  old, 
Shall  homeward  ride  with  silken  sails 

And  masts  of  beaten  gold  ! 


Oh,  rank  is  good,  and  gold  is  fair, 
And  high  and  low  mate  ill  ; 

But  love  has  never  known  a  law 
Beyond  its  own  sweet  will ! 


THE  COUNTESS 

TO   E.  W. 

I  inscribed  this  poem  to  Dr.  Elias  Weld  of 
Haverhill,  Massachusetts,  to  whose  kindness  I 
was  much  indebted  in  my  boyhood.  He  was 
the  one  cultivated  man  in  the  neighborhood. 
His  small  but  well-chosen  library  was  placed  at 
my  disposal.  He  is  the  "  wise  old  doctor  "  of 
Snow-Bound. 

Count  Francois  de  Vipart  with  his  cousin 
Joseph  Rochemont  de  Poyen  came  to  the 
United  States  in  the  early  part  of  the  present 
century.  They  took  up  their  residence  at 
Rocks  Village  on  the  Merrimac,  where  they 
both  married.  The  wife  of  Count  Vipart  was 
Mary  Ing-alls,  who,  as  my  father  remembered 
her,  was  a  very  lovely  young1  girl.  Her  wed 
ding  dress,  as  described  by  a  lady  still  living, 
was  "  pink  satin  with  an  overdress  of  white  lace, 
and  white  satin  slippers. "  She  died  in  less  than 
a  year  after  her  marriage.  Her  husband  re 
turned  to  his  native  country.  He  lies  buried  in 
the  family  tomb  of  the  Viparts  at  Bordeaux. 
[See  note  at  end  of  volume.] 

I  KNOW  not,  Time  and  Space  so  intervene, 
Whether,  still  waiting  with  a  trust  serene, 
Thou  bearest  up  thy  fourscore  years  and  ten, 
Or,  called  at  last,  art  now  Heaven's  citizen  ; 
But,  here  or  there,  a  pleasant  thought  of 

thee, 

Like  an  old  friend,  all  day  has  been  with  me. 
The  shy,  still  boy,  for  whom  thy  kindly  hand 
Smoothed  his  hard  pathway  to  the  wonder 
land 

Of  thought  and  fancy,  in  gray  manhood  yet 
Keeps  green  the  memory  of  his  early  debt. 
To-day,  when  truth  and  falsehood  speak 

their  words 
Through  hot-lipped  cannon  and  the  teeth 

of  swords, 

Listening  with  quickened  heart  and  ear  in 
tent 

To  each  sharp  clause  of  that  stern  argu 
ment, 

I  still  can  hear  at  times  a  softer  note 
Of  the  old  pastoral  music  round  me  float, 
While  through  the  hot  gleam  of  our  civil 
strife 


82 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Looms  the  green  mirage  of  a  simpler  life. 
As,  at  his  alien  post,  the  sentinel 
Drops  the  old  bucket  in  the  homestead  well, 
And  hears  old  voices  in  the  winds  that  toss 
Above  his  head  the  live-oak's  beard  of  moss, 
So,  in  our  trial-time,  and  under  skies 
Shadowed  by  swords  like  Islam's  paradise, 
I  wait  and  watch,  and  let  my  fancy  stray 
To  milder  scenes  and  youth's  Arcadian  day; 
And  howsoe'er  the  pencil  dipped  in  dreams 
Shades  the  brown  woods  or  tints  the  sun 
set  streams, 

The  country  doctor  in  the  foreground  seems, 
Whose  ancient  sulky  down  the  village  lanes 
Dragged,  like  a  war-car,  captive  ills  and 

pains. 

I  could  not  paint  the  scenery  of  my  song, 
Mindless    of  one  who   looked   thereon   so 

long  ; 

Who,  night  and  day,  on  duty's  lonely  round, 
Made  friends  o'  the  woods  and  rocks,  and 

knew  the  sound 
Of  each  small  brook,  and  what  the  hillside 

trees 
Said  to  the  winds  that  touched  their  leafy 


Who  saw  so  keenly  and  so  well  could  paint 
The    village-folk,  with    all    their    humors 

quaint,  — 

The  parson  ambling  on  his  wall-eyed  roan, 
Grave  and  erect,  with  white  hair  backward 

blown ; 
The  tough  old  boatman,  half    amphibious 

grown  ; 
The  muttering  witch- wife  of   the  gossip's 

tale, 

And  the  loud  straggler  levying  his  black 
mail,  — 

Old  customs,  habits,  superstitions,  fears, 
All  that  lies  buried  under  fifty  years. 
To  thee,  as  is  most  fit,  I  bring  my  lay, 
And,  grateful,  own  the  debt  I  cannot  pay. 


Over  the  wooded  northern  ridge, 
Between  its  houses  brown, 

To  the  dark  tunnel  of  the  bridge 
The  street  conies  straggling  down. 


catch  a  glimpse,    through   birch   and 

pine, 

Of  gable,  roof,  and  porch, 
The  tavern  with  its  swinging  sign, 
The  sharp  horn  of  the  church. 


The  river's  steel-blue  crescent  curves 

To  meet,  in  ebb  and  flow, 
The  single  broken  wharf  that  serves 

For  sloop  and  gundelow. 

With  salt  sea-scents  along  its  shores 

The  heavy  hay-boats  crawl, 
The  long  antennae  of  their  oars 

In  lazy  rise  and  fall. 

Along  the  gray  abutment's  wall 

The  idle  shad-net  dries  ; 
The  toll-man  in  his  cobbler's  stall 

Sits  smoking  with  closed  eyes. 

You  hear  the  pier's  low  undertone 
Of  waves  that  chafe  and  gnaw  ; 

You  start,  —  a  skipper's  horn  is  blown 
To  raise  the  creaking  draw. 

At  times  a  blacksmith's  anvil  sounds 

With  slow  and  sluggard  beat, 
Or  stage-coach  on  its  dusty  rounds 

Wakes  up  the  staring  street. 

A  place  for  idle  eyes  and  ears, 
A  cobwebbed  nook  of  dreams  ; 

Left    by    the    stream    whose    waves    arc 

years 
The  stranded  village  seems. 

And  there,  like  other  moss  and  rust, 

The  native  dweller  clings, 
And  keeps,  in  uninquiring  trust, 

The  old,  dull  round  of  things. 

The  fisher  drops  his  patient  lines, 

The  farmer  sows  his  grain, 
Content  to  hear  the  murmuring  pines 

Instead  of  railroad  train. 

Go  where,  along  the  tangled  steep 

That  slopes  against  the  west, 
The  hamlet's  buried  idlers  sleep 

In  still  profouuder  rest. 

Throw  back  the  locust's  flowery  plume, 

The  birch's  pale-green  scarf, 
And  break  the  web  of  brier  and  bloom 

From  name  and  epitaph. 

A  simple  muster-roll  of  death, 

Of  pomp  and  romance  shorn, 
The  dry,  old  names  that  common  breath 

Has  cheapened  and  outworn. 


THE   COUNTESS 


Yet  pause  by  one  low  mound,  and  part 

The  wild  vines  o'er  it  laced, 
And  read  the  words  by  rustic  art 

Upon  its  headstone  traced. 

Haply  yon  white-haired  villager 

Of  fourscore  years  can  say 
What  means  the  noble  name  of  her 

Who  sleeps  with  common  clay. 

An  exile  from  the  Gascon  land 

Found  refuge  here  and  rest, 
And  loved,  of  all  the  village  band, 

Its  fairest  and  its  best. 

He  knelt  with  her  on  Sabbath  morns, 
He  worshipped  through  her  eyes, 

And  on  the  pride  that  doubts  and  scorns 
Stole  in  her  faith's  surprise. 

Her  simple  daily  life  he  saw 

By  homeliest  duties  tried, 
In  all  things  by  an  untaught  law 

Of  fitness  justified. 

For  her  his  rank  aside  he  laid  ; 

He  took  the  hue  and  tone 
Of  lowly  life  and  toil,  and  made 

Her  simple  ways  his  own. 

Yet  still,  in  gay  and  careless  ease, 

To  harvest-field  or  dance 
He  brought  the  gentle  courtesies, 

The  nameless  grace  of  France. 

And  she  who  taught  him  love  not  less 

From  him  she  loved  in  turn 
Caught  in  her  sweet  unconsciousness 

What  love  is  quick  to  learn. 

Each  grew  to  each  in  pleased  accord, 

Nor  knew  the  gazing  town 
If  she  looked  upward  to  her  lord 

Or  he  to  her  looked  down. 

How    sweet,    when     summer's     day    was 
o'er, 

His  violin's  mirth  and  wail, 
The  walk  on  pleasant  Newbury's  shore, 

The  river's  moonlit  sail  ! 

Ah  !  life  is  brief,  though  love  be  long  ; 

The  altar  and  the  bier, 
The  burial  hymn  and  bridal  song, 

Were  both  in  one  short  year  ! 


Her  rest  is  quiet  on  the  hill, 
Beneath  the  locust's  bloom  ; 

Far  off  her  lover  sleeps  as  still 
Within  his  scutcheoned  tomb. 

The  Gascon  lord,  the  village  maid, 
In  death  still  clasp  their  hands  ; 

The  love  that  levels  rank  and  grade 
Unites  their  severed  lands. 

What  matter  whose  the  hillside  grave, 
Or  whose  the  blazoned  stone  ? 

Forever  to  her  western  wave 
Shall  whisper  blue  Garonne  ! 

O  Love  !  —  so  hallowing  every  soil 
That  gives  thy  sweet  flower  room, 

W7herever,  nursed  by  ease  or  toil, 
The  human  heart  takes  bloom  !  — 

Plant  of  lost  Eden,  from  the  sod 

Of  sinful  earth  unriven, 
White  blossom  of  the  trees  of  God 

Dropped  down  to  us  from  heaven  !  — 

This  tangled  waste  of  mound  and  stone 

Is  holy  for  thy  sake  ; 
A  sweetness  which  is  all  thy  own 

Breathes  out  from  fern  and  brake. 

And  while  ancestral  pride  shall  twine 
The  Gascon's  tomb  with  flowers, 

Fall  sweetly  here,  O  song  of  mine, 
With  summer's  bloom  and  showers  ! 

And  let  the  lines  that  severed  seem 

Unite  again  in  thee, 
As  western  wave  and  Gallic  stream 

Are  mingled  in  one  sea  ! 


AMONG    THE    HILLS 

This  poem,  when  originally  published,  was 
dedicated  to  Annie  Fields,  wife  of  the  distin 
guished  publisher,  James  T.  Fields,  of  Boston, 
in  grateful  acknowledgment  of  the  strength 
and  inspiration  I  have  found  in  her  friendship 
and  sympathy. 

The  poem  in  its  first  form  was  entitled  The 
Wife :  an  I>iyl  of  Bearcamp  Water,  and  ap 
peared  in  The  Atlantic  Monthly  for  January, 
1868.  When  I  published  the  volume  Among 
the  Hills,  in  December  of  the  same  year,  I  ex 
panded  the  Prelude  and  filled  out  also  the  out 
lines  of  the  story. 


84 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


PRELUDE 

ALONG   the  roadside,  like   the   flowers  of 

gold 

That  tawny  Incas  for  their  gardens  wrought, 
Heavy  with  sunshine  droops  the  golden-rod, 
And  the  red  pennons  of  the  cardinal-flowers 
Hang  motionless  upon  their  upright  staves. 
The  sky  is  hot  and  hazy,  and  the  wind, 
Wing-weary  with  its  long  flight  from  the 

south, 
Unfelt  ;   yet,   closely  scanned,  yon   maple 

leaf 

With  faintest  motion,  as  one  stirs  in  dreams, 
Confesses  it.     The  locust  by  the  wall 
Stabs  the  noon-silence  with  his  sharp  alarm. 
A  single  hay-cart  down  the  dusty  road 
Creaks  slowly,  with  its  driver  fast  asleep 
On  the  load's  top.     Against  the  neighbor 
ing  hill, 

Huddled  along  the  stone  wall's  shady  side, 
The  sheep  show  white,  as  if  a  snowdrift 

still 
Defied   the  dog-star.     Through   the   open 

door 

A  drowsy  smell  of   flowers  —  gray  helio 
trope, 

And  white  sweet  clover,  and  shy  mignon 
ette  — 

Comes  faintly  in,  and  silent  chorus  lends 
To  the  pervading  symphony  of  peace. 

No  time  is  this  for  hands  long  over-worn 
To  task  their  strength:  and  (unto  Him  be 

praise 
Who   giveth    quietness  !)    the   stress   and 

strain 

Of  years  that  did  the  work  of  centuries 
Have  ceased,  and  we  can  draw  our  breath 

once  more 

Freely  and  full.     So,  as  yon  harvesters 
Make    glad  their  nooning  underneath  the 

elms 

With  tale  and  riddle  and  old  snatch  of  song, 
I  lay  aside  grave  themes,  and  idly  turn 
The  leaves  of  memory's  sketch-book,  dream 
ing  o'er 

Old  summer  pictures  of  the  quiet  hills, 
And  human  life,  as  quiet,  at  their  feet. 

And  yet  not  idly  all.     A  farmer's  son, 
Proud  of  field-lore  and  harvest  craft,  and 

feeling 

All  their  fine  possibilities,  how  rich 
And  restful  even  poverty  and  toil 


Become  when  beauty,  harmony,  and  love 
Sit  at  their  humble  hearth  as  angels  sat 
At  evening  in  the  patriarch's  tent,  when  man 
Makes  labor  noble,  and  his  farmer's  frock 
The  symbol  of  a  Christian  chivalry 
Tender  and  just  and  generous  to  her 
Who  clothes  with  grace  all  duty  ;  still,  I 

know 

Too  well  the  picture  has  another  side,  — 
How  wearily  the  grind  of  toil  goes  on 
Where  love  is  wanting,  how  the  eye  and 

ear 

And  heart  are  starved  amidst  the  plenitude 
Of  nature,  and  how  hard  and  colorless 
Is  life  without  an  atmosphere.     I  look 
Across  the  lapse  of  half  a  century, 
And  call  to  mind  old  homesteads,  where  no 

flower 
Told  that   the  spring  had  come,  but  evil 

weeds, 
Nightshade   and  rough-leaved  burdock  in 

the  place 

Of  the  sweet  doorway  greeting  of  the  rose 
And   honeysuckle,  where    the  house  walls 

seemed 

Blistering  in  sun,  without  a  tree  or  vine 
To  cast  the  tremulous  shadow  of  its  leaves 
Across  the  curtainless  windows,  from  whose 

panes 

Fluttered  the  signal  rags  of  shiftlessness. 
Within,   the  cluttered   kitchen    floor,   un 
washed 
(Broom-clean  I  think  they  called  it);  the 

best  room 

Stifling  with  cellar-damp,  shut  from  the  air 
In  hot  midsummer  bookless,  pictureless 
Save  the  inevitable  sampler  hung 
Over  the  fireplace,  or  a  mourning  piece, 
A  green-haired  woman,  peony-cheeked,  be 
neath 
Impossible   willows  ;      the  wide  -  throated 

hearth 

Bristling  with  faded  pine-boughs  half  con 
cealing 
The   pi  led -up   rubbish   at   the   chimney's 

back  ; 
And,  in  sad  keeping  with  all  things  about 

them, 
Shrill,  querulous  women,  sour  and  sullen 

men, 

Untidy,  loveless,  old  before  their  time, 
With  scarce  a  human  interest  save  their  owr 
Monotonous  round  of  small  economies, 
Or  the  poor  scandal  of  the  neighborhood  ; 
Blind  to  the  beauty  everywhere  revealed, 


AMONG  THE  HILLS 


Treading  the  May-flowers  with  regardless 

feet ; 

For  them  the  song-sparrow  and  the  bobolink 
Sang   not,  nor  winds  made   music  in  the 

leaves  ; 

For  them  in  vain  October's  holocaust 
Burned,  gold  and  crimson,  over  all  the  hills, 
The  sacramental  mystery  of  the  woods. 
Church-goers,  fearful  of  the  unseen  Powers, 
But  grumbling  over  pulpit-tax  and    pew- 
rent, 

Saving,  as  shrewd  economists,  their  souls 
And  winter   pork  with   the    least  possible 

outlay 

Of  salt  and  sanctity  ;  in  daily  life 
Showing  as  little  actual  comprehension 
Of  Christian  charity  and  love  and  duty, 
As  if  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  had  been 
Outdated  like  a  last  year's  almanac  : 
Rich  in  broad  woodlands  and  in  half-tilled 

fields, 

And  yet  so  pinched  and  bare  and  comfort 
less, 

The  veriest  straggler  limping  on  his  rounds, 
The  sun  and  air  his  sole  inheritance, 
Laughed  at  a  poverty  that  paid  its  taxes, 
And  hugged  his  rags  in  self-complacency  ! 

Not   such  should  be  the  homesteads   of  a 

land 
Where  whoso  wisely  wills   and   acts   may 

dwell 

As  king  and  lawgiver,  in  broad-acred  state, 
With  beauty,  art,  taste,  culture,  books,  to 

make 

His  hour  of  leisure  richer  than  a  life 
Of  fourscore  to  the  barons  of  old  time, 
Our  yeoman  should  be  equal  to  his  home 
Set  in  the  fair,  green  valleys,  purple  walled, 
A  man  to  match  his  mountains,  not  to  creep 
Dwarfed  and  abased  below  them.     I  would 

fain 
In  this  light  way  (of  which  I  needs  must 

own 
With  the  knife-grinder  of  whom  Canning 

sings, 
"  Stcry,  God  bless  you  !  I  have  none  to  tell 

you  ! ") 

Invite  the  eye  to  see  and  heart  to  feel 
The  beauty  and  the  joy  within  their  reach,  — 
Home,  and  home  loves,  and  the  beatitudes 
Of  nature  free  to  all.     Haply  in  years 
That  wait  to  take  the  places  of  our  own, 
Heard  where   some   breezy  balcony  looks 

down 


On  happy  homes,  or  where  the  lake  in  the 

moon 
Sleeps  dreaming  of  the  mountains,  fair  as 

Ruth, 

In  the  old  Hebrew  pastoral,  at  the  feet 
Of  Boaz,  even  this  simple  lay  of  mine 
May  seem  the  burden  of  a  prophecy, 
Finding  its  late  fulfilment  in  a  change 
Slow  as  the  oak's  growth,  lifting  manhood  up 
Through  broader   culture,    finer   manners, 

love, 
And  reverence,  to  the  level  of  the  hills. 

O  Golden  Age,  whose  light  is  of  the  dawn, 
And  not  of  sunset,  forward,  not  behind, 
Flood  the  new  heavens  and  earth,  and  with 

thee  bring 

All  the  old  virtres,  whatsoever  things 
Are  pure  and  honest  and  of  good  repute, 
But  add  thereto  whatever  bard  has  sung 
Or  seer  has  told  of  when  in  trance  and  dream 
They  saw  the  Happy  Isles  of  prophecy  ! 
Let  Justice  hold  her  scale,  and  Truth  divide 
Between  the  right  and  wrong  ;  but  give  the 

heart 

The  freedom  of  its  fair  inheritance  ; 
Let  the  poor  prisoner,  cramped  and  starved 

so  long, 

At  Nature's  table  feast  his  ear  and  eye 
With  joy  and  wonder  ;  let  all  harmonies 
Of  sound,  form,  color,  motion,  wait  upon 
The  princely  guest,  whether  in  soft  attire 
Of   leisure    clad,   or   the    coarse   frock   of 

toil, 

And,  lending  life  to  the  dead  form  of  faith, 
Give  human  nature  reverence  for  the  sake 
Of  One  who  bore  it,  making  it  divine 
With  the  ineffable  tenderness  of  God  ; 
Let    common    need,   the    brotherhood    of 

prayer, 

The  heirship  of  an  unknown  destiny, 
The  unsolved  mystery  round  about  us,  make 
A  man  more  precious  than  the  gold  of  Ophir. 
Sacred,  inviolate,  unto  whom  all  things 
Should  minister,  as  outward  types  and  signs 
Of  the  eternal  beauty  which  fulfils 
The  one  great  purpose  of  creation,  Love, 
The  sole  necessity  of  Earth  and  Heaven  ! 


For  weeks  the  clouds  had  raked  the  hills 
And  vexed  the  vales  with  raining, 

And  all  the  woods  were  sad  with  mist, 
And  all  the  brooks  complaining. 


86 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


At  last,  a  sudden  night-storm  tore 

The  mountain  veils  asunder, 
And  swept  the  valleys  clean  before 

The  besom  of  the  thunder. 

Through   Sandwich    notch    the    west-wind 
sang 

Good  morrow  to  the  cotter  ; 
And  once  again  Chocorua's  horn 

Of  shadow  pierced  the  water. 

Above  his  broad  lake  Ossipee, 
Once  more  the  sunshine  wearing, 

Stooped,  tracing  on  that  silver  shield 
His  grim  armorial  bearing. 

Clear  drawn  against  the  hard  blue  sky, 
The  peaks  had  winter's  keenness  ; 

And,  close  on  autumn's  frost,  the  vales 
Had  more  than  June's  fresh  greenness. 

Again  the  sodden  forest  floors 

With  golden  lights  were  checkered, 

Once  more  rejoicing  leaves  in  wind 
And  sunshine  danced  and  flickered. 

It  was  as  if  the  summer's  late 

Atoning  for  its  sadness 
Had  borrowed  every  season's  charm 

To  end  its  days  in  gladness. 

I  call  to  mind  those  banded  vales 

Of  shadow  and  of  shining, 
Through  which,  my  hostess  at  my  side, 

I  drove  in  day's  declining. 

We  held  our  sideling  way  above 
The  river's  whitening  shallows, 

By  homesteads  old,  with  wide-flung  barns 
Swept  through  and  through  by  swallows  ; 

By  maple  orchards,  belts  of  pine 

And  larches  climbing  darkly 
The  mountain  slopes,  and,  over  all, 

The  great  peaks  rising  starkly. 

You  should  have  seen  that  long  hill-range 
With  gaps  of  brightness  riven,  — 

How  through  each  pass  and  hollow  streamed 
The  purpling  lights  of  heaven,  — 

Rivers  of  gold-mist  flowing  down 
From  far  celestial  fountains,  — 

The  great  sun  flaming  through  the  rifts 
Beyond  the  wall  of  mountains  ! 


We  paused  at  last  where  home-bound  cows 
Brought  down  the  pasture's  treasure, 

And  in  the  barn  the  rhythmic  flails 
Beat  out  a  harvest  measure. 

We  heard  the  night-hawk's  sullen  plunge, 
The  crow  his  tree-mates  calling  : 

The  shadows  lengthening  down  the  slopes 
About  our  feet  were  falling. 

And  through  them  smote  the  level  sun 

In  broken  lines  of  splendor, 
Touched    the    gray    rocks   and    made    th$ 
green 

Of  the  shorn  grass  more  tender. 

The  maples  bending  o'er  the  gate, 
Their  arch  of  leaves  just  tinted 

With  yellow  warmth,  the  golden  glow 
Of  coming  autumn  hinted. 

Keen  white  between  the  farm-house  showed, 
And  smiled  on  porch  and  trellis, 

The  fair  democracy  of  flowers 
That  equals  cot  and  palace. 

And  weaving  garlands  for  her  dog, 

'Twixt  chidings  and  caresses, 
A  human  flower  of  childhood  shook 

The  sunshine  from  her  tresses. 

On  either  hand  we  saw  the  signs 

Of  fancy  and  of  shrewdness> 
Where  taste  had  wound  its  arms  of  vines 

Round  thrift's  uncomely  rudeness. 

The  sun-brown  farmer  in  his  frock 
Shook  hands,  and  called  to  Mary  : 

Bare-armed,  as  Juno  might,  sh'"  came, 
White-aproned  from  her  daiiy. 

Her  air,  her  smile,  her  motions,  told 

Of  womanly  completeness  ; 
A  music  as  of  household  songs 

Was  in  her  voice  of  sweetness. 

Not  fair  alone  in  curve  and  line, 
But  something  more  and  better, 

The  secret  charm  eluding  art, 
Its  spirit,  not  its  letter  :  — 

An  inborn  grace  that  nothing  lacked 

Of  culture  or  appliance^  — 
The  warmth  of  genial  courtesy, 

The  calm  of  self-reliance. 


AMONG   THE   HILLS 


87 


Before  her  queenly  womanhood 

How  dared  our  hostess  utter 
The  paltry  errand  of  her  need 

To  buy  her  fresh-churned  butter  ? 

She  led  the  way  with  housewife  pride, 

Her  goodly  store  disclosing1, 
Full  tenderly  the  golden  balls 

With  practised  hands  disposing. 

Then,  while  along  the  western  hills 
We  watched  the  changeful  glory 

Of  sunset,  on  our  homeward  way, 
I  heard  her  simple  story. 

The  early  crickets  sang  ;  the  stream 
Plashed  through  my  friend's  narration  : 

Her  rustic  patois  of  the  hills 
Lost  in  my  free  translation. 

"  More   wise,"  she  said,  "  than  those  who 
swarm 

Our  hills  in  middle  summer, 
She  came,  when  June's  first  roses  blow, 

To  greet  the  early  comer. 

"  From  school  and  ball  and  rout  she  came, 

The  city's  fair,  pale  daughter, 
To  drink  the  wine  of  mountain  air 

Beside  the  Bearcamp  Water. 

"  Her  step  grew  firmer  on  the  hills 
That  watch  our  homesteads  over  ; 

On  cheek  and  lip,  from  summer  fields, 
She  caught  the  bloom  of  clover. 

"  For  health  comes  sparkling  in  the  streams 

From  cool  Chocorua  stealing  : 
There  's  iron  in  our  Northern  winds  ; 

Our  pines  are  trees  of  healing. 

"  She  sat  beneath  the  broad-armed  elms 
That  skirt  the  mowing  meadow, 

And  watched  the  gentle  west-wind  weave 
The  grass  with  shine  and  shadow. 

"  Beside  her,  from  the  summer  heat 
To  share  her  grateful  screening, 

With  forehead  bared,  the  farmer  stood, 
Upon  his  pitchfork  leaning. 

"  Framed  in  its  damp,  dark  locks,  his  face 
Had  nothing  mean  or  common,  — 

Strong,  manly,  true,  the  tenderness 
And  pride  beloved  of  woman. 


"  She  looked  up,  glowing  with  the  health 
The  country  air  had  brought  her, 

And,  laughing,  said  :  'You  lack  a  wife, 
Your  mother  lacks  a  daughter. 

" '  To   mend   your   frock   and    bake   youi 
bread 

You  do  not  need  a  lady  : 
Be  sure  among  these  brown  old  homes 

Is  some  one  waiting  ready,  — 

" '  Some  fair,  sweet  girl  with  skilful  hand 
And  cheerful  heart  for  treasure, 

Who  never  played  with  ivory  keys, 
Or  danced  the  polka's  measure.' 

"  He  bent  his  black  brows  to  a  frown, 

He  set  his  white  teeth  tightly. 
'  'T  is  well,'  he  said,  '  for  one  like  you 

To  choose  for  me  so  lightly. 

"  '  You  think  because  my  life  is  rude 

I  take  no  note  of  sweetness  : 
I  tell  you  love  has  naught  to  do 

With  meetness  or  unmeetuess. 

"  '  Itself  its  best  excuse,  it  asks 

No  leave  of  pride  or  fashion 
When  silken  zone  or  homespun  frock 

It  stirs  with  throbs  of  passion. 

"  '  You  think  me  deaf  and  blind  :  you  bring 

Your  winning  graces  hither 
As  free  as  if  from  cradle-time 

We  two  had  played  together. 

"  '  You  tempt  me  with  your  laughing  eyes, 
Your  cheek  of  sundown's  blushes, 

A  motion  as  of  waving  grain, 
A  music  as  of  thrushes. 

" '  The  plaything  of  your  summer  sport, 
The  spells  you  weave  around  me 

You  cannot  at  your  will  undo, 
Nor  leave  me  as  you  found  me. 

"  '  You  go  as  lightly  as  you  came, 

Your  life  is  well  without  me  ; 
What  care  you  that  these  hills  will  close 

Like  prison-walls  about  me  ? 

"  '  No  mood  is  mine  to  seek  a  wife, 

Or  daughter  for  my  mother  : 
Who  loves  you  loses  in  that  love 

All  power  to  love  another  ! 


88 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


" '  I  dare  your  pity  or  your  scorn, 
With  pride  your  own  exceeding  ; 

I  fling  my  heart  into  your  lap 
Without  a  word  of  pleading.' 

"  She  looked  up  in  his  face  of  pain 

So  archly,  yet  so  tender  : 
*  And  if  I  lend  you  mine,'  she  said, 

'  Will  you  forgive  the  lender  ? 

"  *  Nor  frock  nor  tan  can  hide  the  man  ; 

And  see  you  not,  my  farmer, 
How  weak  and  fond  a  woman  waits 

Behind  the  silken  armor  ? 

"  '  I  love  you  :  on  that  love  alone, 
And  not  my  worth,  presuming, 

Will  you  not  trust  for  summer  fruit 
The  tree  in  May-day  blooming  ?  ' 

"  Alone  the  hangbird  overhead, 
His  hair-swung  cradle  straining, 

Looked  down  to  see  love's  miracle,  — 
The  giving  that  is  gaining. 

"  And  so  the  farmer  found  a  wife, 
His  mother  found  a  daughter  : 

There  looks  no  happier  home  than  hers 
On  pleasant  Bearcamp  Water. 

"  Flowers    spring    to    blossom    where    she 
walks 

The  careful  ways  of  duty  ; 
Our  hard,  stiff  lines  of  life  with  her 

Are  flowing  curves  of  beauty. 

"  Our  homes  are  cheerier  for  her  sake, 
Our  door-yards  brighter  blooming, 

And  all  about  the  social  air 
Is  sweeter  for  her  coming. 

"  Unspoken  homilies  of  peace 

Her  daily  life  is  preaching  ; 
The  still  refreshment  of  the  dew 

Is  her  unconscious  teaching. 

*'  And  never  tenderer  hand  than  hers 

Unknits  the  brow  of  ailing  ; 
Her  garments  to  the  sick  man's  ear 

Have  music  in  their  trailing. 

"  And  when,  in  pleasant  harvest  moons, 

The  youthful  huskers  gather, 
Or  sleigh-drives  on  the  mountain  ways 

Defy  the  winter  weather, — 


"  In  sugar-camps,  when  south  and  warm 
The  winds  of  March  are  blowing, 

And  sweetly  from  its  thawing  veins 
The  maple's  blood  is  flowing,  — 

"  In  summer,  where  some  lilied  pond 

Its  virgin  zone  is  baring, 
Or  where  the  ruddy  autumn  fire 

Lights  up  the  apple-paring,  — 

"  The  coarseness  of  a  ruder  time 

Her  finer  mirth  displaces, 
A  subtler  sense  of  pleasure  fills 

Each  rustic  sport  she  graces. 

"  Her    presence    lends    its    warmth     ai 
health 

To  all  who  come  before  it. 
If  woman  lost  us  Eden,  such 

As  she  alone  restore  it. 

"  For  larger  life  and  wiser  aims 

The  farmer  is  her  debtor  ; 
Who  holds  to  his  another's  heart 

Must  needs  be  worse  or  better. 

"  Through  her  his  civic  service  shows 

A  purer-toned  ambition  ; 
No  double  consciousness  divides 

The  man  and  politician. 

"  In  party's  doubtful  ways  he  trusts 

Her  instincts  to  determine  ; 
At  the  loud  polls,  the  thought  of  her 

Recalls  Christ's  Mountain  Sermon. 

"  He  owns  her  logic  of  the  heart, 

And  wisdom  of  unreason, 
Supplying,  while  he  doubts  and  weighs, 

The  needed  word  in  season. 

"  He  sees  with  pride  her  richer  thought, 

Her  fancy's  freer  ranges  ; 
And  love  thus  deepened  to  respect 

Is  proof  against  all  changes. 

"  And  if  she  walks  at  ease  in  ways 

His  feet  are  slow  to  travel, 
And  if  she  reads  with  cultured  eyes 

What  his  may  scarce  unravel, 

"  Still  clearer,  for  her  keener  sight 

Of  beauty  and  of  wonder, 
He  learns  the  meaning  of  the  hills 

He  dwelt  from  childhood  under. 


THE   DOLE  OF  JARL   THORKELL 


89 


u  And  higher,  warmed  with  summer  lights, 
Or  winter-crowned  and  hoary, 

The  ridged  horizon  lifts  for  him 
Its  inner  veils  of  glory. 

"  He  has  his  own  free,  bookless  lore, 
The  lessons  nature  taught  him, 

The  wisdom  which  the  woods  and  hills 
And  toiling  men  have  brought  him  : 

:<  The  steady  force  of  will  whereby 
Her  flexile  grace  seems  sweeter  ; 

The  sturdy  counterpoise  which  makes 
Her  woman's  life  completer  ; 

'•'  A  latent  fire  of  soul  which  lacks 

No  breath  of  love  to  fan  it  ; 
And  wit,  that,  like  his  native  brooks, 

Plays  over  solid  granite. 

"  How  dwarfed  against  his  manliness 

She  sees  the  poor  pretension, 
The  wants,  the  aims,  the  follies,  born 

Of  fashion  and  convention  ! 

"  How  life  behind  its  accidents 
Stands  strong  and  self-sustaining, 

The  human  fact  transcending  all 
The  losing  and  the  gaining. 

"  And  so  in  grateful  interchange 

Of  teacher  and  of  hearer, 
Their  lives  their  true  distinctness  keep 

While  daily  drawing  nearer. 

"  And  if  the  husband  or  the  wife 
In  home's  strong  light  discovers 

Such  slight  defaults  as  failed  to  meet 
The  blinded  eyes  of  lovers, 

"  Why    need    we     care    to    ask  ?  -  •  who 
dreams 

Without  their  thorns  of  roses, 
Or  wonders  that  the  truest  steel 

The  readiest  spark  discloses  ? 

"  For  still  in  mutual  sufferance  lies 

The  secret  of  true  living  ; 
Love  scarce  is  love  that  never  knows 

The  sweetness  of  forgiving. 

"  We  send  the  Squire  to  General  Court, 
He  takes  his  young  wife  thither  ; 

No  prouder  man  election  day 

Rides  through  the  sweet  June  weather. 


"  He  sees  with  eyes  of  manly  trust 

All  hearts  to  her  inclining  ; 
Not  less  for  him  his  household  light 

That  others  share  its  shining." 

Thus,  while  my  hostess  spake,  there  grew 

Before  me,  warmer  tinted 
And  outlined  with  a  tenderer  grace, 

The  picture  that  she  hinted. 

The  sunset  smouldered  as  we  drove 
Beneath  the  deep  hill-shadows. 

Below  us  wreaths  of  white  fog  walked 
Like  ghosts  the  haunted  meadows. 

Sounding  the  summer  night,  the  stars 
Dropped  down  their  golden  plummet*  ; 

The  pale  arc  of  the  Northern  lights 
Rose  o'er  the  mountain  summits, 

Until,  at  last,  beneath  its  bridge, 
We  heard  the  Bearcamp  fljwing, 

And  saw  across  the  mapled  lawn 
The  welcome  home-lights  glowing. 

And,  musing  on  the  tale  I  heard, 
'T  were  well,  thought  I,  if  often 

To  rugged  farm-life  came  the  gift 
To  harmonize  and  soften  ; 

If  more  and  more  we  found  the  troth 

Of  fact  and  fancy  plighted, 
And  culture's  charm  and  labor's  strength 

In  rural  homes  united,  — 

The  simple  life,  the  homely  hearth, 
With  beauty's  sphere  surrounding, 

And  blessing  toil  where  toil  abounds 
With  graces  more  abounding. 


THE  DOLE  OF  JARL   THORKELL 

THE  land  was  pale  with  famine 

And  racked  with  fever-pain  ; 
The  frozen  fiords  were  fishless, 

The  earth  withheld  her  grain. 

Men  saw  the  boding  Fylgja 

Before  them  come  and  go, 
And,  through  their  dreams,  the  Urdarmoon 

From  west  to  east  sailed  slow  ! 

Jarl  Thorkell  of  Thevera 

At  Yule-time  made  his  vow  ; 


9o 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


On  RykdaPs  holy  Doom-stone 
He  slew  to  Frey  his  cow. 

To  bounteous  Frey  he  slew  her  ; 

To  Skuld,  the  younger  Norn, 
Who  watches  over  birth  and  death, 

He  gave  her  calf  unborn. 

And  his  little  gold-haired  daughter 

Took  up  the  sprinkling-rod, 
And  smeared  with  blood  the  temple 

And  the  wide  lips  of  the  god. 

Hoarse  below,  the  winter  water 

Ground  its  ice  blocks  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

Jets  of  foam,  like  ghosts  of  dead  waves, 
Rose  and  fell  along  the  shore. 

The  red  torch  of  the  Jokul, 

Aloft  in  icy  space, 
Shone  down  on  the  bloody  Horg-stones 

And  the  statue's  carven  face. 

And  closer  round  and  grimmer 

Beneath  its  baleful  light 
The  Jotun  shapes  of  mountains 

Came  crowding  through  the  night. 

The  gray-haired  Hersir  trembled 
As  a  flame  by  wind  is  blown  ; 

A  weird  power  moved  his  white  lips, 
And  their  voice  was  not  his  own  ! 

"  The  ^Esir  thirst  !  "  he  muttered  ; 

"  The  gods  must  have  more  blood 
Before  the  tun  shall  blossom 

Or  fish  shall  fill  the  flood. 

"  The  ^Esir  thirst  and  hunger, 
And  hence  our  blight  and  ban  ; 

The  mouths  of  the  strong  gods  water 
For  the  flesh  and  blood  of  man  ! 

"  Whom  shall  we  give  the  strong  ones  ? 

Not  warriors,  sword  on  thigh  ; 
But  let  the  nursling  infant 

And  bedrid  old  man  die." 

**  So  be  it !  "  cried  the  young  men, 
"  There  needs  nor  doubt  nor  parle." 

But,  knitting  hard  his  red  brows, 
In  silence  stood  the  Jarl. 

A.  sound  of  woman's  weeping 
At  the  temple  door  was  heard, 


But  the  old  men  bowed  their  white  heads, 
And  answered  not  a  word. 

Then  the  Dream-wife  of  Thingvalla, 

A  Vala  young  and  fair, 
Sang  softly,  stirring  with  her  breath 

The  veil  of  her  loose  hair. 

She  sang  :  "  The  winds  from  Alfheim 

Bring  never,  sound  of  strife  ; 
The  gifts  for  Frey  the  meetest 

Are  not  of  death,  but  life. 

"  He  loves  the  grass-green  meadows, 
The  grazing  kine's  sweet  breath  ; 

He  loathes  your  bloody  Horg-stones, 
Your  gifts  that  smell  of  death. 

"  No  wrong  by  wrong  is  righted, 

No  pain  is  cured  by  pain  ; 
The  blood  that  smokes  from  Doom-rings 

Falls  back  in  redder  rain. 

"  The  gods  are  what  you  make  them, 
As  earth  shall  Asgard  prove  ; 

And  hate  will  come  of  hating, 
And  love  will  come  of  love. 

"  Make  dole  of  skyr  and  black  bread 
That  old  and  young  may  live  ; 

And  look  to  Frey  for  favor 
When  first  like  Frey  you  give. 

"  Even  now  o'er  Njord's  sea-meadows 

The  summer  dawn  begins  : 
The  tun  shall  have  its  harvest, 

The  fiord  its  glancing  fins." 

Then  up  and  swore  Jarl  Thorkell  : 

"  By  Gimli  and  by  Hel, 
O  Vala  of  Thingvalla, 

Thou  singest  wise  and  well ! 

"  Too  dear  the  ^Esir's  favors 

Bought  with  our  children's  lives  j 

Better  die  than  shame  in  living 
Our  mothers  and  oiu-  wives. 

"  The  full  shall  give  his  portion 

To  him  who  hath  most  need  ; 
Of  curdled  skyr  and  black  bread, 

Be  daily  dole  decreed." 

He  broke  from  off  his  neck-chair 
Three  links  of  beaten  gold  ; 


THE  TWO   RABBINS 


And  each  man,  at  his  bidding, 
Brought  gifts  for  young  and  old. 

Then  mothers  nursed  their  children, 
And  daughters  fed  their  sires, 

And  Health  sat  down  with  Plenty 
Before  the  next  Yule  fires. 

The  Horg-stones  stand  in  Rykdal  ; 

The  Doom-ring  still  remains  ; 
But  the  snows  of  a  thousand  winters 

Have  washed  away  the  stains. 


Christ  ruleth  now  ;  the 

Have  found  their  twilight  dim  ; 
And,  wiser  than  she  dreamed,  of  old 

The  Vala  sang  of  Hnu  » 


THE   TWO    RABBINS 

THE  Rabbi  Nathan  twoscore  years  and  ten 
Walked  blameless  through  the  evil  world, 

and  then, 

Just  as  the  almond  blossomed  in  his  hair, 
Met  a  temptation  all  too  strong  to  bear, 
And  miserably  sinned.     So,  adding  not 
Falsehood  to  guilt,  he    left   his  seat,  and 

taught 

No  more  among  the  elders,  but  went  out 
From  the  great  congregation  girt  about 
With  sackcloth,  and  with  ashes  on  his  head, 
Making  his  gray  locks  grayer.      Long  he 

prayed, 
Smiting  his  breast  ;  then,  as  the  Book  he 

laid 

Open  before  him  for  the  Bath-Col's  choice, 
Pausing  to  hear  tha*  Daughter  of  a  Voice, 
Behold  the  royal  preacher's  words  :  "A 

friend 

Loveth  at  all  times,  yea,  unto  the  end  ; 
And  for  the  evil  day  thy  brother  lives." 
Marvelling,  he  said  :  *  ^t  is  the  Lord  who 

gives 

Counsel  in  need.     At  Ecbatana  dwells 
Rabbi  Ben  Isaac,  who  all  men  excels 
In  righteousness  and  wisdom,  as  the  trees 
Of  Lebanon  the  small  weeds  that  the  bees 
Bow  with  their  weight.     I  will  arise,  and 

lay 
My  sins  before  him.'* 

And  he  went  his  way 

Barefooted,  fasting  long,  witb  many  prayers ; 
But  even  as  one  who,  followed  unawares, 


Suddenly  in  the  darkness  feels  a  hand 
Thrill  with  its  touch  his  own,  and  his  cheek 

fanned 

By  odors  subtly  sweet,  and  whispers  near 
Of  words  he  loathes,  yet  cannot  choose  but 

hear, 

So,  while  the  Rabbi  journeyed,  chanting  low 
The  wail  of  David's  penitential  woe, 
Before  him  still  the  old  temptation  came, 
And  mocked  him  with  the  motion  and  the 

shame 

Of   such  desires   that,  shuddering,  he  ab 
horred 

Himself  ;  and,  crying  mightily  to  the  Lord 
To  free  his  soul  and  cast  the  demon  out, 
Smote  with  his  staff  the  blankness  round 
about. 

At  length,  in  the  low  light  of  a  spent  day, 
The  towers  of  Ecbatana  far  away 
Rose  on  the  desert's  rim  ;  and  Nathan,  faint 
And  footsore,  pausing  where  for  some  dead 

saint 

The  faith  of  Islam  reared  a  domed  tomb, 
Saw  some  one  kneeling  in  the  shadow,  whom 
He  greeted  kindly  :  "May  the  Holy  One 
Answer  thy  prayers,  O  stranger  !  "     Where 
upon 
The  shape  stood  up  with  a  loud  cry,  and 

then, 
Clasped  in  each  other's  arms,  the  two  gray 

men 

Wept,  praising  Him  whose  gracious  provi 
dence 
Made  their  paths  one.     But  straightway,  as 

the  sense 

Of  his  transgression  smote  him,  Nathan  tore 
Himself    away  :     "  O  friend    beloved,   no 

more 

Worthy  am  I  to  touch  thee,  for  I  came, 
Foul  from  my  sins,  to  tell  thee  all  my  shame. 
Haply  thy  prayers,  since  naught  availeth 

mine, 
May  purge  my  soul,  and  make  it  white  like 

thine. 
Pity  me,  O  Ben  Isaac,  I  have  sinned  !  " 

Awestruck  Ben  Isaac  stood.    The  desert 

wind 

Blew  his  long  mantle  backward,  laying  barQ 
The  mournful  secret  of  his  shirt  of  hair. 
"  I  too,  O  friend,  if  not  in  act,"  he  said, 
"  In   thought    have   verily  sinned.      Hast 

thou  not  read, 
*  Better  the  eye  should  see  than  that  desire 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Should  wander  ?  '     Burning  with  a  hidden 

fire 
That  tears  and  prayers  quench  not,  I  come 

to  thee 

For  pity  and  for  help,  as  thou  to  me. 
Pray  for  me,  O  my  friend  !  "    But  Nathan 

cried, 
"  Pray  thou  for  me,  Ben  Isaac  !  " 

Side  by  side 

In  the  low  sunshine  by  the  turban  stone 
They  knelt  ;  each  made  his  brother's  woe 

his  own, 

Forgetting,  in  the  agony  and  stress 
Of  pitying  love,  his  claim  of  selfishness  ; 
Peace,"  for  his  friend  besought,  his  own  be 
came  ; 
His  prayers  were    answered   in    another's 

name  ; 

And,  when  at  last  they  rose  up  to  embrace, 
Each  saw  God's  pardon  in  his  brother's  face  ! 

Long  after,  when  his  headstone  gathered 

moss, 

Traced  on  the  targum-marge  of  Onkelos 
In  Rabbi  Nathan's  hand  these  words  were 

read  : 

"  Hope  not  the  cure  of  sin  till  Self  is  dead  • 
Forget  it  in  love's  service,  and  the  debt 
Thou  canst  not  pay  the  angels  shall  forget  • 
Heaven's  gate  is  shut  to  him  who  comes  alone  : 
Save  thou  a  soul,  and  it  shall  save  thy  own  I " 


NOREMBEGA 

Norembega,  or  Norimbegue,  is  the  name 
given  by  early  French  fishermen  and  explorers 
to  a  fabulous  country  south  of  Cape  Breton, 
first  discovered  by  Verrazzani  in  1524.  It  was 
supposed  to  have  a  magnificent  city  of  the 
same  name  on  a  great  river,  probably  the  Pe- 
nobscot.  The  site  of  this  barbaric  city  is  laid 
down  on  a  map  published  at  Antwerp  in  1570. 
In  1604  Champlain  sailed  in  search  of  the 
Northern  Eldorado,  twenty-two  leagues  up  the 
Penobscot  from  the  Isle  Haute.  He  supposed 
the  river  to  be  that  of  Norembega,  but  wisely 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  those  travellers 
who  told  of  the  great  city  had  never  seen  it. 
He  saw  no  evidences  of  anything  like  civiliza 
tion,  but  mentions  the  finding  of  a  cross,  very 
old  and  mossy,  in  the  woods. 

THE  winding  way  the  serpent  takes 
The  mystic  water  took, 


From  where,  to  count  its  beaded  lakes, 
The  forest  sped  its  brook. 

A  narrow  space  'twixt  shore  and  shore, 

For  sun  or  stars  to  fall, 
While  evermore,  behind,  before, 

Closed  in  the  forest  wall. 

The  dim  wood  hiding  underneath 

Wan  flowers  without  a,  name  ; 
Life  tangled  with  decay  and  death, 

League  after  league  the  same. 

Unbroken  over  swamp  and  hill 

The  rounding  shadow  lay, 
Save  where  the  river  cut  at  will 

A  pathway  to  the  day. 

Beside  that  track  of  air  and  light, 

Weak  as  a  child  unweaned, 
At  shut  of  day  a  Christian  knight 

Upon  his  henchman  leaned. 

The  embers  of  the  sunset's  fires 
Along  the  clouds  burned  down  ; 

"  I  see,"  he  said,  "  the  domes  and  spires 
Of  Norembega  town." 

"  Alack  !  the  domes,  O  master  mine, 

Are  golden  clouds  on  high  ; 
Yon  spire  is  but  the  branchless  pine 

That  cuts  the  evening  sky." 

"Oh,  hush  and  hark !  What  sounds  are  these 
But  chants  and  holy  hymns  ?  " 

"  Thou  hear'st  the  breeze  that  stirs  the  trees 
Through  all  their  leafy  limbs." 

"  Is  it  a  chapel  bell  that  fills 

The  air  with  its  low  tone  ?  " 
"  Thou  hear'st  the  tinkle  of  the  rills, 

The  insect's  vesper  drone." 

"  The  Christ  be  praised  !  —  He  sets  for  me 

A  blessed  cross  in  sight  !  " 
"  Now,  nay,  't  is  but  yon  blasted  tree 

With  two  gaunt  arms  outright  !  " 

"  Be  it  wind  so  sad  or  tree  so  stark, 

It  mattereth  not,  my  knave  ; 
Methinks  to  funeral  hymns  I  hark, 

The  cross  is  for  my  grave  ! 

"  My  life  is  sped  ;  I  shall  not  see 
My  home-set  sails  again  ; 


MIRIAM 


93 


The  sweetest  eyes  of  Normandie 
Shall  watch  for  me  in  vain. 

"  Yet  onward  still  to  ear  and  eye 

The  baffling  marvel  calls  ; 
I  fain  would  look  before  I  die 

On  Norembega's  walls. 

"  So,  haply,  it  shall  be  thy  part 

At  Christian  feet  to  lay 
The  mystery  of  the  desert's  heart 

My  dead  hand  plucked  away. 

"  Leave  me  an  hour  of  rest  ;  go  thou 
And  look  from  yonder  heights  ; 

Perchance  the  valley  even  now 
Is  starred  with  city  lights." 

The  henchman  climbed  the  nearest  hill, 

He  saw  nor  tower  nor  town, 
But,  through  the  drear  woods,  lone  and  still, 

The  river  rolling  down. 

He  heard  the  stealthy  feet  of  things 
Whose  shapes  he  could  not  see, 

A  flutter  as  of  evil  wings, 
The  fall  of  a  dead  tree. 

The  pines  stood  black  against  the  moon, 

A  sword  of  fire  beyond  ; 
He  heard  the  wolf  howl,  and  the  loon 

Laugh  from  his  reedy  pond. 

He  turned  him  back  :  "  O  master  dear, 

We  are  but  men  misled  ; 
And  thou  hast  sought  a  city  here 

To  find  a  grave  instead." 

"As  God  shall  will !  what  matters  where 
A  true  man's  cross  may  stand, 

So  Heaven  be  o'er  it  here  as  there 
In  pleasant  Norman  land  ? 

"  These  woods,  perchance,  no  secret  hide 

Of  lordly  tower  and  hall  ; 
Yon  river  in  its  wanderings  wide 

Has  washed  no  city  wall ; 

"  Yet  mirrored  in  the  sullen  stream 

The  holy  stars  are  given  : 
Is  Norembega,  then,  a  dream 

Whose  waking  is  in  Heaven  ? 

"  No  builded  wonder  of  these  lands 
My  weary  eyes  shall  see  ; 


A  city  never  made  with  hands 
Alone  awaiteth  me  — 

"  '  Urbs  Syon  mystica  •  '  I  see 

Its  mansions  passing  fair, 
'  Condita  ccelo  ;  '  let  me  be, 

Dear  Lord,  a  dweller  there  !  " 

Above  the  dying  exile  hung 

The  vision  of  the  bard, 
As  faltered  on  his  failing  tongue 

The  song  of  good  Bernard. 

The  henchman  dug  at  dawn  a  grave 

Beneath  the  hemlocks  brown, 
And  to  the  desert's  keeping  gave 

The  lord  of  fief  and  town. 

Years  after,  when  the  Sieur  Champlain 
Sailed  up  the  unknown  stream, 

And  Norembega  proved  again 
A  shadow  and  a  dream, 

He  found  the  Norman's  nameless  grave 

Within  the  hemlock's  shade, 
And,  stretching  wide  its  arms  to  save, 

The  sign  that  God  had  made, 

The  cross-boughed  tree  that  marked   the 
spot 

And  made  it  holy  ground  : 
He  needs  the  earthly  city  not 

Who  hath  the  heavenly  found. 


MIRIAM 

TO   FREDERICK   A.   P.  BARNARD 

[When  Whittier  was  an  editor  in  Hartford, 
Mr.  Barnard,  afterward  President  of  Columbia 
College,  was  a  teacher  in  the  Asylum  for  the 
Deaf  and  Dumb  in  that  place.  Both  men  were 
at  the  time  especially  interested  in  Eastern  his 
tory  and  romance.] 

THE  years  are  many  since,  in  youth  and 

hope, 

Under  the  Charter  Oak,  our  horoscope 
We  drew  thick-studded  with  all  favoring 

stars. 
Now,  with  gray  beards,  and  faces  seamed 

with  scars 

From  life's  hard  battle,  meeting  once  again, 
We  smile,  half  sadly,  over  dreams  so  vain  : 


94 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Knowing,  at  last,  that  it  is  not  in  man 
Who  walketh  to  direct  his  steps,  or  plan 
His  permanent  house    of   life.     Alike   we 

loved 
The   muses'   haunts,   and   all   our   fancies 

moved 
To  measures  of  old  song.     How  since  that 

day 
Our  feet  have  parted  from  the  path  that 

lay 
So   fair   before    us  !     Rich,  from   lifelong 

search 

Of  truth,  within  thy  Academic  porch 
Thou  sittest  now,  lord  of  a  realm  of  fact, 
Thy  servitors  the  sciences  exact  ; 
Still  listening  with  thy  hand  on  Nature's 

keys, 

To  hear  the  Samian's  spheral  harmonies 
And  rhythm  of  law.     I,  called  from  dream 

and  song, 

Thank  God  !  so  early  to  a  strife  so  long, 
That,  ere   it    closed,   the   black,  abundant 

hair 

Of  boyhood  rested  silver-sown  and  spare 
On  manhood's  temples,  now  at  sunset-chime 
Tread  with  fond  feet  the  path  of  morning 

time. 

And  if  perchance  too  late  I  linger  where 
The  flowers  have  ceased  to  blow,  and  trees 

are  bare, 
Thou,  wiser   in   thy  choice,   wilt   scarcely 

blame 
The  friend  who  shields  his  folly  with  thy 

name. 


One  Sabbath  day  my  friend  and  I, 
After  the  meeting,  quietly 
Passed  from  the  crowded  village  lanes, 
White  with  dry  dust  for  lack  of  rains, 
And  climbed  the  neighboring  slope,  with 

feet 

Slackened  and  heavy  from  the  heat, 
Although  the  day  was  wellnigh  done, 
And  the  low  angle  of  the  sun 
Along  the  naked  hillside  cast 
Our  shadows  as  of  giants  vast. 
We  reached,  at  length,  the  topmost  swell, 
Whence,  either  way,  the  green  turf  fell 
In  terraces  of  nature  down 
To  fruit-hung  orchards,  and  the  town 
With  white,  pretenceless  houses,  tall 
Church-steeples,  and,  o'ershadowing  all, 
Huge  mills  whose  windows  had  the  look 
Of  eager  eyes  that  ill  could  brook 


The  Sabbath  rest.     We  traced  the  track 
Of  the  sea-seeking  river  back, 
Glistening  for  miles  above  its  mouth, 
Through  the  long  valley  to  the  south, 
And,  looking  eastward,  cool  to  view, 
Stretched  the  illimitable  blue 
Of  ocean,  from  its  curved  coast-line  ; 
Sombred  and  still  the  warm  sunshine 
Filled  with  pale  gold-dust  all  the  reach 
Of  slumberous  woods  from  hill  to  beach,  — 
Slanted  on  walls  of  thronged  retreats 
From  city  toil  and  dusty  streets, 
On  grassy  bluff,  and  dune  of  sand, 
And  rocky  islands  miles  from  land  ; 
Touched  the  far-glancing  sails,  and  showed 
White    lines    of   foam   where   long   waves 

flowed 

Dumb  in  the  distance.     In  the  north, 
Dim  through  their  misty  hair,  looked  forth 
The  space-dwarfed  mountains  to  the  sea, 
From  mystery  to  mystery  ! 

So,  sitting  on  that  green  hill-slope, 
We  talked  of  human  life,  its  hope 
And  fear,  and  unsolved  doubts,  and  what 
It  might  have  been,  and  yet  was  not. 
And,  when  at  last  the  evening  air 
Grew  sweeter  for  the  bells  of  prayer 
Ringing  in  steeples  far  below, 
We  watched  the  people  churchward  go, 
Each  to  his  place,  as  if  thereon 
The  true  shekinah  only  shone  ; 
And  my  friend  queried  how  it  came 
To  pass  that  they  who  owned  the  same 
Great  Master  still  could  not  agree 
To  worship  Him  in  company. 
Then,  broadening  in  his  thought,  he  ran 
Over  the  whole  vast  field  of  man,  — 
The  varying  forms  of  faith  and  creed 
That  somehow  served  the  holders'  need  ; 
In  which,  unquestioned,  undenied, 
Uncounted  millions  lived  and  died  ; 
The  bibles  of  the  ancient  folk, 
Through  which  the  heart  of  nations  spoke 
The  old  moralities  which  lent 
To  home  its  sweetness  and  content, 
And  rendered  possible  to  bear 
The  life  of  peoples  everywhere  : 
And  asked  if  we,  who  boast  of  light, 
Claim  not  a  too  exclusive  right- 
To  truths  which  must  for  all  be  meant, 
Like  rain  and  sunshine  freely  sent. 
In  bondage  to  the  letter  still, 
We  give  it  power  to  cramp  and  kill,  — 
To  tax  God's  fulness  with  a  scheme 


MIRIAM 


95 


Narrower  than  Peter's  house-top  dream, 

His  wisdom  and  his  love  with  plans 

Poor  and  inadequate  as  man's. 

It  must  be  that  He  witnesses 

Somehow  to  all  men  that  He  is  : 

That  something  of  His  saving  grace 

Reaches  the  lowest  of  the  race, 

Who,  through  strange  creed  and  rite,  may 

draw 

The  hints  of  a  diviner  law. 
We  walk  in  clearer  light  ;  —  but  then, 
Is  He  not  God  ?  —  are  they  not  men  ? 
Are  His  responsibilities 
For  us  alone  and  not  for  these  ? 

And  I  made  answer  :    "  Truth  is  one  ; 
And,  in  all  lands  beneath  the  sun, 
Whoso  hath  eyes  to  see  may  see 
The  tokens  of  its  unity. 
No  scroll  of  creed  its  fulness  wraps, 
We  trace  it  not  by  school-boy  maps, 
Free  as  the  sun  and  air  it  is 
Of  latitudes  and  boundaries. 
In  Vedic  verse,  in  dull  Koran, 
Are  messages  of  good  to  man  ; 
The  angels  to  our  Aryan  sires 
Talked  by  the  earliest  household  fires  ; 
The  prophets  of  the  elder  day, 
The  slant-eyed  sages  of  Cathay, 
Read  not  the  riddle  all  amiss 
Of  higher  life  evolved  from  this. 

"  Nor  doth  it  lessen  what  He  taught, 
Or  make  the  gospel  Jesus  brought 
Less  precious,  that  His  lips  retold 
Some  portion  of  that  truth  of  old  ; 
Denying  not  the  proven  seers, 
The  tested  wisdom  of  the  years  ; 
Confirming  with  His  own  impress 
The  common  law  of  righteousness. 
We    search     the    world    for    truth.  ;     we 

cull 

The  good,  the  pure,  the  beautiful, 
From  graven  stone  and  written  scroll, 
From  all  old  flower-fields  of  the  soul  ; 
And,  weary  seekers  of  the  best, 
We  come  back  laden  from  our  quest, 
To  find  that  all  the  sages  said 
Is  in  the  Book  our  mothers  read, 
And  all  our  treasure  of  old  thought 
In  His  harmonious  fulness  wrought 
Who  gathers  in  one  sheaf  complete 
The  scattered  blades  of  God's  sown  wheat, 
The  common  growth  that  maketh  good 
His  all-embracing  Fatherhood. 


"  Wherever  through  the  ages  rise 
The  altars  of  self-sacrifice, 
Where  love  its  arms  has  opened  wide, 
Or  man  for  man  has  calmly  died, 
I  see  the  same  white  wings  outspread 
That  hovered  o'er  the  Master's  head  ! 
Up  from  undated  time  they  come, 
The  martyr  souls  of  heathendom, 
And  to  His  cross  and  passion  bring 
Their  fellowship  of  suffering. 
I  trace  His  presence  in  the  blind 
Pathetic  gropings  of  my  kind,  — 
In  prayers  from  sin  and  sorrow  wrung, 
In  cradle-hymns  of  life  they  sung, 
Each,  in  its  measure,  but  a  part 
Of  the  unmeasured  Over-heart  ; 
And  with  a  stronger  faith  confess 
The  greater  that  it  owns  the  less. 
Good  cause  it  is  for  thankfulness 
That  the  world-blessing  of  His  life 
With  the  long  past  is  not  at  strife  ; 
That  the  great  marvel  of  His  death 
To  the  one  order  witnesseth, 
No  doubt  of  changeless  goodness  wakes, 
No  link  of  cause  and  sequence  breaks, 
But,  one  with  nature,  rooted  is 
In  the  eternal  verities  ; 
Whereby,  while  differing  in  degree 
As  finite  from  infinity, 
The  pain  and  loss  for  others  borne, 
Love's  crown  of  suffering  meekly  worn, 
The  life  man  giveth  for  his  friend 
Becomes  Adcarious  in  the  end  ; 
Their  healing  place  in  nature  take, 
And  make  life  sweeter  for  their  sake. 

"  So  welcome  I  from  every  source 
The  tokens  of  that  primal  Force, 
Older  than  heaven  itself,  yet  new 
As  the  young  heart  it  reaches  to, 
Beneath  whose"  steady  impulse  rolls 
The  tidal  wave  of  human  souls  ; 
Guide,  comforter,  and  inward  word, 
The  eternal  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 
Nor  fear  I  aught  that  science  brings 
From  searching  through  material  things ; 
Content  to  let  its  glasses  prove, 
Not  by  the  letter's  oldness  move, 
The  myriad  worlds  on  worlds  that  course 
The  spaces  of  the  universe  ; 
Since  everywhere  the  Spirit  walks 
The  garden  of  the  heart,  and  talks 
With  man,  as  under  Eden's  trees, 
In  all  his  varied  languages. 
Why  mourn  above  some  hopeless  flaw 


96 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY  POEMS 


In  the  stone  tables  of  the  law, 
When  scripture  every  day  afresh 
Is  traced  on  tablets  of  the  flesh  ? 
By  inward  sense,  by  outward  signs, 
God's  presence  still  the  heart  divines  ; 
Through  deepest  joy  of  Him  we  learn, 
In  sorest  grief  to  Him  we  turn, 
And  reason  stoops  its  pride  to  share 
The  child-like  instinct  of  a  prayer." 

And  then,  as  is  my  wont,  I  told 
A  story  of  the  days  of  old, 
Not  found  in  printed  books,  —  in  sooth, 
A  fancy,  with  slight  hint  of  truth, 
Showing  how  differing  faiths  agree 
In  one  sweet  law  of  charity. 
Meanwhile  the  sky  had  golden  grown, 
Our  faces  in  its  glory  shone  ; 
But  shadows  down  the  valley  swept, 
And  gray  below  the  ocean  slept, 
As  time  and  space  I  wandered  o'er 
To  tread  the  Mogul's  marble  floor, 
And  see  a  fairer  sunset  fall 
On  Jumna's  wave  and  Agra's  wall. 

The  good  Shah  Akbar  (peace  be  his  alway  !) 
Came  forth  from  the  Divan  at  close  of  day 
Bowed  with  the  burden  of  his  many  cares, 
Worn  with  the  hearing  of  unnumbered 

prayers,  — 

Wild  cries  for  justice,  the  importunate 
Appeals  of  greed  and  jealousy  and  hate, 
And  all  the  strife  of  sect  and  creed  and  rite, 
Santon  and  Gouroo  waging  holy  fight  : 
For  the  wise  monarch,  claiming  not  to  be 
Allah's  avenger,  left  his  people  free, 
With  a  faint  hope,  his  Book  scarce  justified, 
That  all  the  paths  of  faith,  though  severed 

wide, 
O'er  which  the  feet  of  prayerful  reverence 

passed, 
Met  at  the  gate  of  Paradise  at  last. 

He  sought  an  alcove  of  his  cool  hareem, 
Where,  far  beneath,  he  heard  the  Jumna's 

stream 

Lapse  soft  and  low  along  his  palace  wall, 
And  all  about  the  cool  sound  of  the  fall 
Of  fountains,  and  of  water  circling  free 
Through  marble  ducts  along  the  balcony  ; 
The  voice  of  women  in  the  distance  sweet, 
And,  sweeter  still,  of  one  who,  at  his  feet, 
Soothed  his  tired  ear  with  songs  of  a  far 

land 
Where  Tagus  shatters  on  the  salt  sea-sand 


The  mirror  of  its  cork-grown  hills  of  drouth 
And   vales   of   vine,   at   Lisbon's    harbor- 
mouth. 

The  date-palms  rustled  not ;    the  peepul 

laid 

Its  topmost  boughs  against  the  balustrade, 
Motionless  as  the  mimic  leaves  and  vines 
That,    light   and    graceful   as   the    shawl- 
designs 

Of  Delhi  or  Umritsir,  twined  in  stone  ; 
And   the    tired   monarch,    who   aside   had 

thrown 

The  day's  hard  burden,  sat  from  care  apart, 
And  let  the  quiet  steal  into  his  heart 
From  the  still  hour.     Below  him  Agra  slept 
By  the  long  light  o>f  sunset  overswept  : 
The  river  flowing  through  a  level  laud, 
By  mango-groves  and  banks  of  yellow  sand, 
Skirted  with  lime  and  orange,  gay  kiosks, 
Fountains  at  play,  tall  minarets  of  mosques, 
Fair  pleasure-gardens,  with  their  flowering 

trees 

Relieved  against  the  mournful  cypresses  ; 
And,  air-poised  lightly  as  the  blown  sea- 
foam, 

The  marble  wonder  of  some  holy  dome 
Hung  a  white  moonrise  over  the  still  wood, 
Glassing  its  beauty  in  a  stiller  flood. 

Silent  the  monarch  gazed,  until  the  night 
Swift-falling  hid  the  city  from  his  sight  ; 
Then  to  the  woman  at  his  feet  he  said  : 
"  Tell  me,  O  Miriam,  something  thou  hast 

read 

In  childhood  of  the  Master  of  thy  faith, 
Whom  Islam  also  owns.    Our  Prophet  saith  : 
'  He  was  a  true  apostle,  yea,  a  Word 
And  Spirit  sent  before  me  from  the  Lord.' 
Thus  the  Book  witnesseth  ;  and  well  I  know 
By  what  thou  art,  O  dearest,  it  is  so 
As  the   lute's  tone  the  maker's  hand  be 
trays, 

The   sweet   disciple    speaks   her   Master's 
praise." 

Then  Miriam,  glad  of  heart,  (for  in  some 

sort 

She  cherished  in  the  Moslem's  liberal  court 
The  sweet  traditions  of  a  Christian  child  ; 
And,  through  her  life  of  sense,  the  un- 

defiled 

And  chaste  ideal  of  the  sinless  One 
Gazed  on  her  with  an  eye  she  might  not 

shun,  — - 


MIRIAM 


97 


JThe  sad,  reproachful  look  of  pity,  born 
Of  love  that  hath  no  part  in  wrath  or  scorn,) 
Began,  with  low  voice  and  moist  eyes,  to  tell 
Of  the  all-loving  Christ,  and  what  befell 
When  the  fierce  zealots,  thirsting  for  her 

blood, 

Dragged  to  his  feet  a  shame  of  womanhood. 
How,  when  his  searching  answer   pierced 

within 

Each  heart,  and  touched  the  secret  of  its  sin, 
And  her  accusers  fled  his  face  before, 
He  bade  the  poor  one  go  and  sin  no  more. 
And  Akbar  said,  after  a  moment's  thought, 
"  Wise  is  the  lesson  by  thy  prophet  taught ; 
Woe  unto  him  who  judges  and  forgets 
What  hidden  evil  his  own  heart  besets  ! 
Something  of  this  large  charity  I  find 
In  all  the  sects  that  sever  humankind  ; 
I  would  to  Allah  that  their  lives  agreed 
More  nearly  with  the  lesson  of  their  creed  ! 
Those  yellow  Lamas  who  at  Meerut  pray 
By  wind  and  water  power,  and  love  to  say  : 
'  He  who  forgiveth  not  shall,  unforgiven, 
Fail  of  the  rest  of  Buddha,'  and  who  even 
Spare  the  black  gnat  that  stings  them,  vex 

my  ears 

With  the  poor  hates  and  jealousies  and  fears 
Nursed  in  their  human  hives.     That  lean, 

fierce  priest 

Of  thy  own  people,  (be  his  heart  increased 
By  Allah's  love  !)  his  black  robes  smelling 

yet 

Of  Goa's  roasted  Jews,  have  I  not  met 
Meek-faced,  barefooted,  crying  in  the  street 
The  saying  of  his  prophet  true  and  sweet,  — 
*  He  who  is  merciful  shall  mercy  meet  !  ' " 

But,  next  day,  so  it  chanced,  as  night  be 
gan 

To  fall,  a  murmur  through  the  hareem  ran 
That  one,  recalling  in  her  dusky  face 
The  full-lipped,  mild-eyed  beauty  of  a  race 
Known  as  the  blameless  Ethiops  of  Greek 

song, 

Plotting  to  do  her  royal  master  wrong, 
Watching,   reproachful   of    the    lingering 

light, 

The  evening  shadows  deepen  for  her  flight, 
Love-guided,  to  her  home  in  a  far  land, 
Now  waited  death  at  the  great  Shah's  com 
mand. 

Shapely  as  that  dark  princess  for  whose 

smile 
A  world  was  bartered,  daughter  of  the  Nile 


Herself,  and  veiling  in  her  large,  soft  eyes 
The  passion  and  the  languor  of  her  skies, 
The  Abyssinian  knelt  low  at  the  feet 
Of  her  stern  lord  :  "  O  king,  if  it  be  meet, 
And  for  thy  honor's  sake,"  she  said,  "  that  I, 
Who  am  the  humblest  of  thy  slaves,  should 

die, 

I  will  not  tax  thy  mercy  to  forgive. 
Easier  it  is  to  die  than  to  outlive 
All  that  life  gave  me,  —  him  whose  wrong 

of  thee 

Was  but  the  outcome  of  his  love  for  me, 
Cherished  from  childhood,  when,  beneath 

the  shade 

Of  templed  Axum,  side  by  side  we  played. 
Stolen  from  his  arms,  my  lover  followed  me 
Through  weary  seasons  over  land  and  sea  ; 
And  two  days  since,  sitting  disconsolate 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  hareem  gate, 
Suddenly,  as  if  dropping  from  the  sky, 
Down  from  the  lattice  of  the  balcony 
Fell  the  sweet  song  by  Tigre's   cowherds 

sung 

In  the  old  music  of  his  native  tongue. 
He  knew  my  voice,  for  love  is  quick  of  ear, 
Answering  in  song. 

This  night  he  waited  near 
To  fly  with  me.     The  fault  was  mine  alone  •. 
He  knew  thee  not,  he  did  but  seek  his  own  ; 
Who,  in  the  very  shadow  of  thy  throne, 
Sharing  thy  bounty,  knowing  all  thou  art, 
Greatest  and  best  of  men,  and  in  her  heart 
Grateful  to  tears  for  favor  undeserved, 
Turned    ever  homeward,  nor  one  moment 

swerved 
From  her  young  love.     He  looked  into  my 

eyes, 

He  heard  my  voice,  and  could  not  otherwise 
Than  he  hath  done  ;  yet,  save  one  wild  em 
brace 

When  first  we  stood  together  face  to  face, 
And  all  that  fate  had  done  since  last  we  met 
Seemed  but  a  dream  and  left  us  children 

yet, 

He  hath  not  wronged  thee  nor  thy  royal  bed  : 
Spare   him,  O  king  !    and    slay  me  in  his 
stead  ! " 

But  over  Ak bar's  brows  the  frown  hung 

black, 

And,  turning  to  the  eunuch  at  his  back, 
"  Take  them,"  he  said,  "  and  let  the  Jumna's 

waves 
Hide  both   my  shame  and  these  accursed 

slaves  ! " 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


His  loathly  length   the    unsexed  bondman 

bowed  : 
"  On  my  head  be  it !  " 

Straightway  from  a  cloud 
Of  dainty  shawls  and  veils  of  woven  mist 
The  Christian  Miriam  rose,  and,  stooping, 

kissed 
The   monarch's   hand.      Loose    down   her 

shoulders  bare 

Swept  all  the  rippled  darkness  of  her  hair, 
Veiling  the  bosom  that,  with  high,  quick 

swell 
Of  fear  and  pity,  through  it  rose  and  fell. 

"  Alas  !  "  she  cried,  "  hast  thou  forgotten 

quite 

The  words  of  Him  we  spake  of  yesternight  ? 
Or  thy  own  prophet's,  «  Whoso  doth  endure 
And  pardon,  of  eternal  life  is  sure  '  ? 
O  great  and  good  !  be  thy  revenge  alone 
Felt  in  thy  mercy  to  the  erring  shown  ; 
Let  thwarted  love  and  youth  their  pardon 

plead, 
*Vho  sinned  but  in  intent,  and  not  in  deed  !  " 

One  moment  the  strong  frame  of  Akbar 

shook 
With  the  great  storm  of  passion.     Then  his 

look 

Softened  to  her  uplifted  face,  that  still 
Pleaded  more  strongly  than  all  words,  until 
Its  pride  and  anger  seemed  like  overblown, 
Spent  clouds  of  thunder  left  to  tell  alone 
Of  strife    and  overcoming.     With    bowed 

head, 

And  smiting  011  his  bosom  :  "  God,"  he  said, 
"  Alone  is  great,  and  let  His  holy  name 
Be  honored,  even  to  His  servant's  shame  ! 
Well  spake  thy  prophet,  Miriam, — he  alone 
Who  hath  not  sinned  is  meet  to  cast  a  stone 
At  such    as   these,  who   here    their   doom 

await, 
Held  like   myself  in  the  strong   grasp  of 

fate. 
They  sinned  through  love,  as  I  through  love 

forgive  ; 
Take  them  beyond  my  realm,  but  let  them 

live!"' 

And,  like  a  chorus  to  the  words  of  grace, 
The  ancient  Fakir,  sitting  in  his  place, 
Motionless  as  an  idol  and  as  grim, 
In  the  pavilion  Akbar  built  for  him 
Under  the  court-yard  trees,  (  for    he  was 


Knew  Menu's  laws,  and  through  his  closer 

shut  eyes 

Saw  things  far  off,  and  as  an  open  book 
Into  the  thoughts  of  other  men  could  look,) 
Began,  half  chant,  half  howling,  to  rehearse 
The  fragment  of  a  holy  Vedic  verse  ; 
And  thus  it  ran  :  "  He  who  all  things  for 
gives 
Conquers  himself  and  all  things  else,  and 

lives 

Above  the  reach  of  wrong  or  hate  or  fear, 
Calm  as  the  gods,  to  whom  he  is  most  dear." 

Two  leagues  from  Agra  still  the  traveller 

sees 

The  tomb  of  Akbar  through  its   cypress- 
trees  ; 
And,  near  at  hand,  the  marble  walls  that 

hide 

The  Christian  Begum  sleeping  at  his  side. 
And  o'er  her  vault  of  burial  (who  shall  teli 
If  it  be  chance  alone  or  miracle  ?) 
The  Mission  press  with  tireless  hand  unrolls 
The  words  of  Jesus  on  its  lettered  scrolls,  — 
Tells,  in  all  tongues,  the  tale  of  mercy  o'ei 
And  bids  the  guilty,  "  Go  and  sin  no  more  !  " 


It  now  was  dew-fall  ;  very  still 
The  night  lay  on  the  lonely  hill, 
Down  which  our  homeward  steps  we  bent, 
And,  silent,  through  great  silence  went, 
Save  that  the  tireless  crickets  played 
Their  long,  monotonous  serenade. 
A  young  moon,  at  its  narrowest, 
Curved  sharp  against  the  darkening  west  j 
And,  momently,  the  beacon's  star, 
Slow  wheeling  o'er  its  rock  afar, 
From  out  the  level  darkness  shot 
One  instant  and  again  was  not. 
And  then  my  friend  spake  quietly 
The  thought  of  both  :  "  Yon  crescent  see! 
Like  Islam's  symbol-moon  it  gives 
Hints  of  the  light  whereby  it  lives  : 
Somewhat  of  goodness,  something  true 
From  sun  and  spirit  shining  through 
All  faiths,  all  worlds,  as  through  the  dark 
Of  ocean  shines  the  lighthouse  spark, 
Attests  the  presence  everywhere 
Of  love  and  providential  care. 
The  faith  the  old  Norse  heart  confessed 
In  one  dear  name,  —  the  hopefulest 
And  tenderest  heard  from  mortal  lips 
in  pangs  of  birth  or  death,  from  ships 


NAUHAUGHT,  THE   DEACON 


99 


Ice-bitten  in  the  winter  sea, 
Or  lisped  beside  a  mother's  knee,  — 
The  wiser  world  hath  not  outgrown, 
And  the  All-Father  is  our  own  !  " 


NAUHAUGHT,   THE    DEACON 

NAUHAUGHT,  the  Indian  deacon,  who  of  old 
Dwelt,  poor  but  blameless,  where  his  nar 
rowing  Cape 

Stretches  its  shrunk  arm  out  to  all  the  winds 
And  the  relentless  smiting  of  the  waves, 
Awoke  one  morning  from  a  pleasant  dream 
Of  a  good  angel  dropping  in  his  hand 
A  fair,  broad  gold-piece,  in  the  name  of  God. 

He  rose  and  went  forth  with  the  early  day 
Far  inland,  where  the  voices  of  the  waves 
Mellowed  and  mingled  with  the  whispering 

leaves, 
As,  through  the  tangle  of   the  low,  thick 

woods, 
He  searched  his  traps.     Therein  nor  beast 

nor  bird 
He  found  ;  though  meanwhile  in  the  reedy 

pools 

The  otter  plashed,  and  underneath  the  pines 
The    partridge    drummed  :     and    as    his 

thoughts  went  back 

To  the  sick  wife  and  little  child  at  home, 
What  marvel  that  the  poor  man  felt  his  faith 
Too  weak  to  bear  its  burden,  —  like  a  rope 
That,  strand  by  strand  uncoiling,  breaks 

above 
The  hand  that  grasps  it.     "  Even  now,  O 

Lord! 
Send  me,"  he  prayed, "  the   angel  of   my 

dream  ! 
Nauhaught  is  very  poor  ;    he  cannot  wait." 

Even  as  he  spake  he  heard  at  his  bare  feet 
A  low,  metallic  clink,  and,  looking  down, 
He  saw  a  dainty  purse  with  disks  of  gold 
Crowding  its  silken  net.     Awhile  he  held 
The  treasure  up  before  his  eyes,  alone 
With  his  great  need,  feeling  the  wondrous 

coins 

Slide  through  his  eager  fingers,  one  by  one. 
So  then  the  dream  was  true.     The  angel 

brought 
One  broad  piece  only  ;  should  he  take  all 

these  ? 
Who  would  be  wiser,  in  the  blind,  dumb 

woods  ? 


The  loser,  doubtless   rich,  would   scarcely 

miss 
This  dropped  crumb  from  a  table  always 

full. 
Still,  while  he  mused,  he  seemed  to  hear 

the  cry 

Of  a  starved  child  ;  the  sick  face  of  his  wife 
Tempted  him.     Heart  and   flesh  in  fierce 

revolt 

Urged  the  wild  license  of  his  savage  youth 
Against  his  later  scruples.     Bitter  toil, 
Prayer,  fasting,  dread  of  blame,  and  pitiless 

eyes 
To  watch  his   halting,  —  had   he   lost   for 

these 

The  freedom  of  the  woods  ;  —  the  hunting- 
grounds 

Of  happy  spirits  for  a  walled-in  heaven 
Of  everlasting  psalms  ?    One  healed  the  sick 
Very  far  off  thousands  of  moons  ago  : 
Had  he  not  prayed  him  night  and  day  to 

come 
And  cure  his  bed-bound  wife  ?     Was  there 

a  hell  ? 
Were    all    his    fathers'    people    writhing 

there  — 

Like  the  poor  shell-fish  set  to  boil  alive  — 
Forever,  dying  never  ?     If  he  kept 
This  gold,  so  needed,  would  the  dreadful 

God 
Torment    him    like   a   Mohawk's    captive 

stuck 
With    slow-consuming  splinters  ?     Would 

the  saints 
And  the  white  angels  dance  and  laugh  to 

see  him 

Burn  like  a  pitch-pine  torch  ?     His  Chris 
tian  garb 
Seemed  falling  from  him  ;     with  the  fear 

and  shame 

Of  Adam  naked  at  the  cool  of  day, 
He  gazed  around.     A  black  snake  lay  in  coil 
On  the  hot  sand,  a  crow  with  sidelong  eye 
Watched  from  a  dead  bough.     All  his  In 
dian  lore 

Of  evil  blending  with  a  convert's  faith 
In  the  supernal  terrors  of  the  Book, 
He  saw  the  Tempter  in  the  coiling  snake 
And  ominous,  black-winged  bird  ;  and  all 

the  while 

The  low  rebuking  of  the  distant  waves 
Stole  in  upon  him  like  the  voice  of  God 
Among  the  trees  of  Eden.  Girding  up 
His  soul's  loins  with  a  resolute  hand,  he 

tbrus* 


100 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


The  base  thought  from  him  :  "  Nauhaught, 

be  a  man  ! 
Starve,  if  need  be  ;  but,  while  you  live,  look 

out 

From  honest  eyes  on  all  men,  unashamed. 
God  help  me  !     I  am  deacon  of  the  church, 
A  baptized,  praying  Indian  !     Should  I  do 
This    secret    meanness,    even   the    barken 

knots 
Of  the  old  trees  would  turn  to  eyes  to  see 

it, 

The  birds  would  tell  of  it,  and  all  the  leaves 
Whisper    above    me  :    ;  Nauhaught    is    a 

thief  ! ' 
The  sun  would  know  it,  and  the  stars  that 

hide 
Behind  his  light  would  watch  me,  and  at 

night 

Follow  me  with  their  sharp,  accusing  eyes. 
Yea,  thou,  God,  seesfc  me  ! "     Then  Nau 
haught  drew 

CVoser  his  belt  of  leather,  dulling  thus 
The  pain  of  hunger,  and  walked  bravely 

back 

To  the  brown  fishing-hamlet  by  the  sea  ; 
And,    pausing   at   the    inn  -  door,  cheerily 

asked  : 
"  Who  hath  lost  aught  to-day  ?  " 

"  I,"  said  a  voice  ; 

"  Ten  golden  pieces,  in  a  silken  purse, 
My    daughter's    handiwork."      He  looked, 

and  lo  ! 

One  stood  before  him  in  a  coat  of  frieze, 
And  the  glazed  hat  of  a  seafaring  man, 
Shrewd-faced,    broad-shouldered,    with    no 

trace  of  wings. 

Marvelling,  he  dropped  within  the  stran 
ger's  hand 

The  silken  web,  and  turned  to  go  his  way. 
But   the   man  said  :  "  A  tithe  at  least  is 

yours  ; 

Take  it  in  God's  name  as  an  honest  man." 
And  as  the  deacon's  dusky  fingers  closed 
Over  the  golden  gift,  "  Yea,  in  God's  name 
I  take  it,  with  a  poor  man's  thanks,"  he 

said. 
So   down  the  street  that,  like  a  river  of 

sand, 

Ran,  white  in  sunshine,  to  the  summer  sea, 
He  sought  his  home,  singing  and  praising 

God  ; 
And  when  his  neighbors  in  their  careless 

way 

Spoke  of  the  owner  of  the  silken  purse  — 
A  Wellfleet  skipper,  known  in  every  j>ort 


That  the  Cape  opens  in  its  sandy  wall  — 
He  answered,  with  a  wise  smile,  to  him. 

self: 
"  I  saw  the  angel  where  they  see  a  man." 


THE    SISTERS 

ANNIE  and  Rhoda,  sisters  twain, 
Woke  in  the  night  to  the  sound  of  rain, 

The  rush  of  wind,  the  ramp  and  roar 
Of  great  waves  climbing  a  rocky  shore. 

Annie  rose  up  in  her  bed-gown  white, 
And  looked  out  into  the  storm  and  night. 

"  Hush,  and  hearken  ! "  she  cried  in  fear, 
"  Hearest  thou  nothing,  sister  dear  ?  " 

"  I  hear  the  sea,  and  the  plash  of  rain, 
And  roar  of  the  northeast  hurricane. 

"  Get  thee  back  to  the  bed  so  warm, 
No  good  comes  of  watching  a  storm. 

"  What  is  it  to  thee,  I  fain  would  know, 
That  waves   are   roaring   and  wild  winds 
blow  ? 

"  No  lover  of  thine  's  afloat  to  miss 
The  harbor-lights  on  a  night  like  this." 

"  But  I  heard  a  voice  cry  out  my  name, 
Up  from  the  sea  on  the  wind  it  came  ! 

"  Twice  and  thrice  have  I  heard  it  call, 
And   the    voice    is   the    voice    of   Estwick 
Hall ! " 

On  her  pillow  the  sister  tossed  her  head. 
"  Hall  of  the  Heron  is  safe,"  she  said. 

"  In  the  tautest  schooner  that  ever  swam 
He  rides  at  anchor  in  Annisquam. 

"  And,  if  in  peril  from  swamping  sea 

Or  lee  shore  rocks,  would  he  call  on  thee  ?  " 

But  the  girl  heard  only  the  wind  and  tide, 
And  wringing  her  small  white  hands  she 
cried: 

"  O  sister  Rhoda,  there's  something  wrong  ; 
I  hear  it  again,  so  loud  and  long-. 


MARGUERITE 


to* 


" '  Annie  !  Annie  !  '  I  riear  it  call, 
And   the   voice   is   the    voice    of   Estwick 
Hall  !  " 

Up  sprang  the  elder,  with  eyes  aflame, 
"  Thou   liest !     He   never  would   call   thy 
name  ! 

"  If  he  did,  I  would   pray  the  wind  and 

sea 
To  keep  him  forever  from  thee  and  me  !  " 

Then    out    of    the   sea   blew   a    dreadful 

blast  ; 
Like  the  cry  of  a  dying  man  it  passed. 

The  young  girl  hushed  on  her  lips  a  groan, 
But   through    her    tears   a   strange    light 
shone,  — 

The  solemn  joy  of  her  heart's  release 
To  own  and  cherish  its  love  in  peace. 

"  Dearest !  "  she  whispered,  under  breath, 
"  Life  was  a  lie,  but  true  is  death. 

"  The  love  I  hid  from  myself  away 
Shall  crown  me  now  in  the  light  of  day. 

"  My  ears  shall  never  to  wooer  list, 
Never  by  lover  my  lips  be  kissed. 

"  Sacred  to  thee  am  1  henceforth, 
Thou  in  heaven  and  I  on  earth  !  " 

She  came  and  stood  by  her  sister's  bed  : 
«  Hall  of  the  Heron  is  dead  !  "  she  said. 

"  The  wind  and  the  waves  their  work  have 

done, 
We  shall   see   him  \io   more   beneath   the 

sun. 

"  Little  will  reck  that  heart  of  thine  ; 
It  loved  him  not  with  a  love  like  mine. 

"  I,  for  his  sake,  were  he  but  here, 
Could  hem  and  'broider  thy  bridal  gear, 

"  Though  hands  snould  tremble  and  eyes 

be  wet, 
And  stitch  for  stitch  in  my  heart  be  set. 

*  But  now  my  soul  with  his  soul  I  wed  ; 
Thine  the  living,  and  mine  the  dead  !  " 


MARGUERITE 

MASSACHUSETTS   BAY,    1760 

Upwards  of  one  thousand  of  the  Acadian 
peasants  forcibly  taken  from  their  homes  on 
the  Gaspereau  and  Basin  of  Minas  were  as 
signed  to  the  several  towns  of  the  Massachu 
setts  colony,  the  children  being  bound  by  the 
authorities  to  service  or  labor. 

THE  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  the  buds 

into  blossoms  grew  ; 
Little  of  human  sorrow  the  buds  and  the 

robins  knew  ! 

Sick,  in  an  alien  household,  the  poor  French 

neutral  lay  ; 
Into  her  lonesome  garret  fell  the  light  of 

the  April  day, 

Through  the  dusty  window,  curtained  by 
the  spider's  warp  and  woof, 

On  the  loose-laid  floor  of  hemlock,  on 
oaken  ribs  of  roof, 

The  bedquilt's  faded  patchwork,  the  tea 
cups  on  the  stand, 

The  wheel  with  flaxen  tangle,  as  it  dropped 
from  her  sick  hand  ! 

What  to  her  was  the  song  of  the  robin,  or 
warm  morning  light, 

As  she  lay  in  the  trance  of  the  dying,  heed 
less  of  sound  or  sight  ? 

Done  was  the  work  of  her  hands,  she  had 

eaten  her  bitter  bread  ; 
The  world  of  the  alien  people  lay  behind 

her  dim  and  dead. 

But  her  soul  went  back  to  its  child-time; 

she  saw  the  sun  o'erflow 
With  gold  the  Basin  of  Minas,  and  set  over 

Gaspereau  ; 

The  low,  bare  flats  at  ebb-tide,  the  rush  of 

the  sea  at  flood, 
Through  inlet  and  creek  and  river,  from 

dike  to  upland  wood  ; 

The  gulls  in  the  red  of  morning,  the  fish- 
hawk's  rise  and  fall, 

The  drift  of  the  fog  in  moonshine,  over  the 
dark  coast- wall. 


102 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


She  saw  the  face  of  her  mother,  she  heard 

the  song  she  sang  ; 
And   far  off,   faintly,  slowly,  the  bell  for 

vespers  rang  ! 

By  her  bed  the  hard-faced  mistress  sat, 
smoothing  the  wrinkled  sheet, 

Peering  into  the  face,  so  helpless,  and  feel 
ing  the  ice-cold  feet. 

With  a  vague  remorse  atoning  for  her  greed 

and  long  abuse, 
By  care  no  longer  heeded  and  pity  too  late 

for  use. 

Up  the  stairs  of  the  garret  softly  the  son  of 

the  mistress  stepped, 
Leaned  over  the  head- board,  covering  his 

face  with  his  hands,  and  wept. 

Outspake  the  mother,  who  watched  him 
sharply,  with  brow  a-frown  : 

"  What  !  love  you  the  Papist,  the  beggar, 
the  charge  of  the  town  ?  " 

"  Be  she  Papist  or  beggar  who  lies  here,  I 

know  and  God  knows 
I   love    her,  and    fain  would  go  with  her 

wherever  she  goes  ! 

"  O  mother  !  that  sweet  face  came  pleading, 

for  love  so  athirst. 
You  saw  but  the  town-charge  ;  I  knew  her 

God's  angel  at  first." 

Shaking  her  gray  head,  the  mistress  hushed 

down  a  bitter  cry  ; 
And   awed   by  the  silence  and  shadow  of 

death  drawing  nigh, 

She  murmured  a  psalm  of  the  Bible  ;  but 
closer  the  young  girl  pressed, 

With  the  last  of  her  life  in  her  fingers,  the 
cross  to  her  breast. 

"My  son,  come  away,"  cried  the  mother, 

her  voice  cruel  grown. 
"  She  is  joined  to  her  idols,  like  Ephraim  ; 

let  her  alone  !  " 

But  he  knelt  with  his  hand  on  her  forehead, 

his  lips  to  her  ear, 
And   he    called   back   the    soul    that   was 

passing :      "  Marguerite,     do      you 

hear  ?  " 


She  paused  on  the  threshold  of  heaven; 

love,  pity,  surprise, 
Wistful,  tender,  lit  up  for  an  instant  the 

cloud  of  her  eyes. 

With  his  heart  on  his  lips  he  kissed  her, 
but  never  her  cheek  grew  red, 

And  the  words  the  living  long  for  he  spake 
in  the  ear  of  the  dead. 

And  the  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  where 

buds  to  blossoms  grew  ; 
Of  the  folded  hands  and  the  still  face  never 

the  robins  knew ! 


THE   ROBIN 

MY  old  Welsh  neighbor  over  the  way 
Crept  slowly  out  in  the  sun  of  spring, 

Pushed  from  her  ears  the  locks  of  gray, 
And  listened  to  hear  the  robins  sing. 

Her  grandson,  playing  at  marbles,  stopped, 
And,  cruel  in  sport  as  boys  will  be, 

Tossed  a  stone  at  the  bird,  who  hopped 
From  bough  to  bough  in  the  apple-tree. 

"  Nay  !  "  said  the  grandmother  ;  "  have  you 
not  heard, 

My  poor,  bad  boy  !  of  the  fiery  pit, 
And  how,  drop  by  drop,  this  merciful  bird 

Carries  the  water  that  quenches  it  ? 

"  He  brings  cool  dew  in  his  little  bill, 
And  lets  it  fall  on  the  souls  of  sin  : 

You  can  see  the  mark  on  his  red  breast  still 
Of  fires  that  scorch  as  he  drops  it  in. 

"  My    poor    Bron    rhuddyn  !    my   breast- 
burned  bird, 

Singing  so  sweetly  from  limb  to  limb, 
Very  dear  to  the  heart  of  Our  Lord 

Is  he  who  pities  the  lost  like  Him  ! " 

"  Amen  !  "  I  said  to  the  beautiful  myth  ; 

"  Sing,  bird  of  God,  in  my  heart  as  well: 
Each  good  thought  is  a  drop  wherewith 

To  cool  and  lessen  the  fires  of  hell. 

"  Prayers  of  love  like  rain-drops  fall, 

Tears  of  pity  are  cooling  dew, 
And  dear  to  the  heart  of  Our  Lord  are  aJ.1. 

Who  suffer  like  Him  in  the  good  thej 
do!" 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM 


THE    PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM 

[For  the  preface  which  introduced  this  poem 
when  first  published,  see  the  notes  at  the  end 
of  this  volume.  The  verses  which  precede  the 
prelude  are  from  the  Latin  of  FRANCIS  DANIEL 
PASTORIUS  in  the  Germantoivn  Records,  1688.  J 

HAIL  to  posterity  ! 
Hail,  future  men  of  Germanopolis  ! 

Let  the  young  generations  yet  to  be 
Look  kindly  upon  this. 
Think  how   your  fathers  left  their  native 

land,  — 
Dear    German-land  !    O   sacred  hearths 

and  homes  !  — 
And,  where  the  wild  beast  roams, 

In  patience  planned 
New  forest-homes  beyond  the  mighty  sea, 

There  undisturbed  and  free 
To  live  as  brothers  of  one  family. 
What  pains  and  cares  befell, 

What  trials  and  what  fears, 
Remember,  and  wherein  we  have  done  well 
Follow    our    footsteps,    men    of    coming 

years  ! 

Where  we  have  failed  to  do 
Aright,  or  wisely  live, 
B'e  warned  by  us,  the  better  way  pursue, 
And,  knowing  we  were  human,  even  as  you, 

Pity  us  and  forgive  ! 
Farewell,  Posterity  ! 
Farewell,  dear  Germany! 
Forevermore  farewell ! 

PRELUDE 

I  SING  the  Pilgrim  of  a  softer  clime 

And  milder  speech  than  those  brave  men's 

who  brought 

To  the  ice  and  iron  of  our  winter  time 
A   will   as   firm,  a   creed  as   stern,  and 

wrought 
With  one  mailed  hand,  and  with  the  other 

fought. 

Simply,  as  fits  my  theme,  in  homely  rhyme 
I   sing   the    blue-eyed   German    Spener 

taught, 

Through  whose  veiled,  mystic  faith  the  In 
ward  Light, 
Steady    and   still,    an    easy    brightness, 

shone, 

Transfiguring    all   things   in   its    radiance 
white. 


The    garland   which   his   meekness   never 

sought 

I  bring  him  ;  over  fields  of  harvest  sown 
With  seeds  of  blessing,  now  to  ripeness 

grown, 

I  bid  the  sower  pass  before  the    reapers' 
sight. 


Never  in  tenderer  quiet  lapsed  the  day 
From  Pennsylvania's  vales  of  spring  away, 
Where,  forest-walled,  the  scattered  hamlets 
lay 

Along  the  wedded  rivers.     One  long  bar 
Of   purple    cloud,    on   which   the    evening 

star 
Shone  like  a  jewel  on  a  scimitar, 

Held  the  sky's  golden  gateway.     Through 

the  deep 
Hush  of  the  woods  a  murmur  seemed  to 

creep, 
The  Schuylkill  whispering  in  a  voice  of 

sleep. 

All  else  was  still.  The  oxen  from  their 
ploughs 

Rested  at  last,  and  from  their  long  day's 
browse 

Came  the  dun  files  of  Krisheim's  home- 
bound  cows. 

And  the  young  city,   round  whose  virgin 

zone 
The   rivers   like   two   mighty   arms   were 

thrown, 
Marked    by    the   smoke   of   evening   fires 

alone, 

Lay  in  the  distance,  lovely  even  then 
With  its  fair  women  and  its  stately  men 
Gracing  the  forest  court  of  William  Penn, 

Urban    yet    sylvan  ;     in  its  rough  -  hewn 

frames 
Of  oak  and  pine  the  dryads  held  their 

claims, 
And  lent  its  streets  tneir  pleasant  woodland 

names. 

Anna  Pastorius  down  the  leafy  lane 
Looked  city- ward,  then  stooped  to  prune 

again 
Her  vines  and  simples,  with  a  sigh  of  pain 


104 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


For  fast  the  streaks  of  ruddy  sunset  paled 
In  the  oak  clearing,  and,  as  daylight  failed, 
Slow,    overhead,     the    dusky    night-birds 
sailed. 

Again  she  looked  :    between  green  walls  of 

shade, 
With    low -bent    head    as  if  with  sorrow 

weighed, 
Daniel  Pastorius  slowly  came  and  said, 

"  God's  peace  be  with  thee,  Anna  !  "    Then 

he  stood 

Silent  before  her,  wrestling  with  the  mood 
Of  one  who  sees  the  evil  and  not  good. 

"  What  is  it,  my  Pastorius  ?  "  As  she  spoke, 
A  slow,  faint  smile  across  his  features  broke, 
Sadder  than  tears.     "  Dear  heart,"  he  said, 
"  our  folk 

"  Are  even  as  others.     Yea,  our  goodliest 

Friends 

Are  frail  ;  our  elders  have  their  selfish  ends, 
And  few  dare    trust    the    Lord    to    make 

amends 

"  For  duty's  loss.    So  even  our  feeble  word 
For  the  dumb  slaves  the  startled  meeting 

heard 
As  if  a  stone  its  quiet  waters  stirred  ; 

"  And,  as  the  clerk  ceased  reading,  there 

began 

A  ripple  of  dissent  which  downward  ran 
In  widening  circles,  as  from  man  to  man. 

"Somewhat  was  said  of  running  before 
sent, 

Of  tender  fear  that  some  their  guide  out 
went, 

Troublers  of  Israel.     I  was  scarce  intent 

"  On  hearing,  for  behind  the  reverend  row 
Of  gallery   Friends,   in  dumb  and  piteous 

show, 
I  saw,  methought,  dark  faces  full  of  woe. 

"  And,  in  the  spirit,  I  was  taken  where 
They  toiled  and  suffered  ;  I  was  made  aware 
Of  shame  and  wrath  and  anguish  and  de 


spair 


"And   while  the    meeting   smothered    our 
poor  plea 


With  cautious  phrase,  a  V7oice  there  seemed 

to  be, 
'  As  ye  have  done  to  these  ye  do  to  me  !  ' 

"  So  it  all  passed  ;  and  the  old  tithe  went  on 
Of  anise,  mint,  and  cumin,  till  the  sun 
Set,  leaving  still    the  weightier  work  un 
done. 

"  Help,  for  the  good  man  faileth  !     Who  is 

strong, 
If  these  be  weak  ?  Who  shall  rebuke  the 

wrong, 
If  these  consent  ?  How  long,  O  Lord  ! 

how  long  !  " 

He  ceased  ;  and,  bound  in  spirit  with  the 

bound, 
With  folded  arms,  and  eyes  that  sought  the 

ground, 
Walked  musingly  his  little  garden  round. 

About  him,  beaded  with  the  falling  dew, 
Rare  plants  of  power  and  herbs  of  healing 

grew, 
Such  as  Van  Helmont  and  Agrippa  knew. 

For,  by  the  lore  of  Gorlitz'  gentle  sage, 
Witli  the  mild  mystics  of  his  dreamy  age 
He  read  the  herbal  signs  of  nature's  page, 

As  once  he  heard  in  sweet  Von  Merlau's 

bowers 

Fair  as  herself,  in  boyhood's  happy  hours, 
The  pious  Spener  read  his  creed  in  flowers. 

"  The  dear  Lord  give  us  patience  !  "  said 

his  wife, 

Touching  with  finger-tip  an  aloe,  rife 
With   leaves  sharp-pointed   like  an  Aztec 

knife 


Or  Carib  spear,  a  gift  to  William  Penn 
From  the  rare  gardens  of  John  Evelyn, 
Brought  from  the  Spanish  Main  by 
chantmen. 


"  See  this  strange  plant  its  steady  purpose 

hold, 

And,  year  by  year,  its  patient  leaves  unfold, 
Till  the  young  eyes  that  watched  it  first  are 

old. 

"  But  some  time,  thou  hast  told  me,  there 
shall  come 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM 


I05 


A  sudden  beauty,  brightness,  and  perfume  ; 
The   century- moulded  bud    shall   burst  in 
bloom. 

"  So  may  the  seed  which  hath  been  sown 

to-day 

Grow  with  the  years,  and,  after  long  delay, 
Break  into  bloom,  and  God's  eternal  Yea 

"  Answer  at  last  the  patient  prayers  of  them 
Who  now,  by  faith  alone,  behold  its  stem 
Crowned  with   the    flowers    of   Freedom's 
diadem. 

"  Meanwhile,  to  feel  and  suffer,  work  and 

wrait, 
Remains    for    us.     The  wrong    indeed   is 

great, 
But  love  and  patience  conquer  soon  or  late." 

"  Well  hast  thou  said,  my  Anna  !  "     Ten 
derer 

Than  youth's  caress  upon  the  head  of  her 
Pastorius  laid  his  hand.     "  Shall  we  demur 

;<  Because  the  vision  tarrieth  ?  In  an  hour 
We  dream  not  of,  the  slow-growrn  bud  may 

flower, 
And  what  was  sown  in  weakness   rise    in 

power  ! " 

Then  through  the  vine-draped  door  whose 

legend  read, 

"  Procul  este  profani  !  "  Anna  led 
To  where  their  child  upon  his  little  bed 

Looked  up  and  smiled.     "  Dear  heart,"  she 

said,  "  if  we 

Must  bearers  of  a  heavy  burden  be, 
Our  boy,  God  willing,  yet  the  day  shall  see 

"  When  from  the  gallery  to  the  farthest  seat, 
Slave  and  slave-owner  shall  no  longer  meet, 
But  all  sit  equal  at  the  Master's  feet." 

On  the  stone  hearth  the  blazing  walnut  block 
Set  the  low  walls  a-glimmer,  showed  the 

cock 
Rebuking  Peter  on  the  Van  Wyck  clock, 

Shone  on  old  tomes  of  law  and  physic,  side 
By  side  with  Fox  and  Behmen,  played  at 

hide 
And  seek  with  Anna,  midst  her  household 

pride 


Of  flaxen  webs,  and  on  the  table,  bare 
Of  costly  cloth  or  silver  cup,  but  where, 
Tasting  the  fat  shads  of  the  Delaware, 

The  courtly  Penn  had  praised  the  good- 
wife's  cheer, 

And  quoted  Horace  o'er  her  home-brewed 
beer, 

Till  even  grave  Pastorius  smiled  to  hear. 

In   such  a   home,    beside    the    Schuylkill's 

wave, 
He  dwelt  in  peace  with  God  and  man,  anc 

gave 
Food  to  the  poor  and  shelter  to  the  slave. 

For  all  too  soon  the  New  World's  scandal 

shamed 
The  righteous  code  by  Penn  and  Sidney 

framed, 
And  men  withheld  the  human  rights  they 

claimed. 

And  slowly  wealth  and  station  sanction  lent, 
And  hardened  avarice,  on  its  gains  intent, 
Stifled  the  inward  whisper  of  dissent. 

Yet  all  the  while  the  burden  rested  sore 
On  tender  hearts.     At  last  Pastorius  bore 
Their  warning    message    to    the   Church's 
door 

In  God's  name  ;  and  the  leaven  of  the  word 
Wrought  ever  after  in  the  souls  who  heard, 
And  a  dead  conscience  in  its  grave-clothes 
stirred 

To  troubled  life,  and  urged  the  vain  excuse 
Of  Hebrew  custom,  patriarchal  use, 
Good  in  itself  if  evil  in  abuse. 

Gravely  Pastorius  listened,  not  the  less 
Discerning  through  the  decent  fig-leaf  dress 
Of  the  poor  plea  its  shame  of  selfishness. 

One  Scripture  rule,  at  least,  was  unforgot  t 
He  hid  the  outcast,  and  bewrayed  him  not  ; 
And,   when   his    prey   the   human    hunter 
sought, 

He  scrupled  not,  while  Anna's  wise  delay 
And  proffered  cheer  prolonged  the  master's 

stay, 
To  speed   the   black   guest   safely  on   his 

way. 


io6 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


5Tet    who  shall  guess  his  bitter  grief  who 

lends 
His  life  to  some  great  cause,  and  finds  his 

friends 
Shame  or  betray  it  for  their  private  ends  ? 

How  felt  the  Master  when  his  chosen  strove 
In  childish  folly  for  their  seats  above  ; 
And  that  fond  mother,  blinded  by  her  love, 

Besought    him    that   her   sons,    beside    his 

throne, 

Might  sit  on  either  hand  ?     Amidst  his  own 
A  stranger  oft,  companionless  and  lone, 

God's   priest    and    prophet   stands.        The 

martyr's  pain 
Is   not   alone    from  scourge  and  cell  and 

chain  ; 
Sharper   the  pang  when,  shouting   in   his 

train, 

His  weak  disciples  by  their  lives  deny 
The  loud  hosannas  of  their  daily  cry, 
And  make  their  echo  of  his  truth  a  lie. 

His  forest  home  no  hermit's  cell  he  found, 
Guests,    motley-minded,    drew    his    hearth 

around, 
And    held   armed    truce    upon  its  neutral 

ground. 

There  Indian  chiefs  with  battle-bows  un 
strung, 

Strong,  hero-limbed,  like  those  whom  Ho 
mer  sung, 

Pastorius  fancied,  when  the  world  was 
young, 

Came  with  their  tawny  women,  lithe  and 

tall, 
Like  bronzes  in  his  friend  Von  Rodeck's 

hall, 
Comely,  if  black,  and  not  unpleasing  all. 

There  hungry  folk  in  homespun  drab  and 

gray 
Drew  round  his  board  on  Monthly  Meeting 

day, 
Genial,  half  merry  in  their  friendly  way. 

Or,  haply,  pilgrims  from  the  Fatherland, 
Weak,  timid,  homesick,  slow  to  understand 
The  New  World's  promise,  sought  his  help 
ing  hand. 


Or  painful  Kelpius  from  his  hermit  den 
By  Wissahickon,  maddest  of  good  meu, 
Dreamed  o'er  the  Chiliast  dreams  of  Peter- 
sen. 

Deep  in  the  woods,  where  the  small  river 

slid 
Snake-like  in  shade,  the  Helmstadt  Mystic 

hid, 
Weird  as  a  wizard,  over  arts  forbid, 

Reading  the  books  of  Daniel  and  of  John, 
And  Behmen's  Morning-Redness,  through 

the  Stone 
Of  Wisdom,  vouchsafed  to  his  eyes  alone, 

Whereby  he  read  what  man  ne'er  read  be 
fore, 

And  saw  the  visions  man  shall  see  no  more, 
Till  the  great  angel,  striding  sea  and  shore, 

Shall  bid  all  flesh  await,  on  land  or  ships, 
The  warning  trump  of  the  Apocalypse, 
Shattering  the   heavens  before  the  dreaW 
eclipse. 

Or  meek-eyed  Mennonist  his  bearded  chin 
Leaned   o'er  the    gate  ;    or   Ranter,  pure 

within, 
Aired  his  perfection  in  a  world  of  sin. 

Or,  talking  of   old  home  scenes,  Op  der 

Graaf 
Teased  the  low  back-log  with  his  shodden 

staff, 
Til'  the  red  embers  broke  into  a  laugh 

And  dance  of  flame,  as  if  they  fain  would 

cheer 

The  rugged  face,  half  tender,  half  austere, 
Touched  with  the  pathos  of   a  homesick 

tear  ! 

Or  Sluyter,  saintly  familist,  whose  word 
As  law  the  Brethren  of  the  Manor  heard, 
Announced  the  speedy  terrors  of  the  Lorc^ 

And  turned,  like  Lot  at  Sodom,  from  his 

race, 
Above  a  wrecked  world  with  complacent 

face 
Riding  secure  upon  his  plank  of  grace  ! 

Haply,  from  Finland's  birchen  groves  ex 
iled- 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA    PILGRIM 


107 


Manly  in  thought,  in  simple  ways  a  child, 
His   white   hair  floating  round   his   visage 
mild, 

The  Swedish  pastor  sought  the  Quaker's 

door, 
Pleased   from  his  neighbor's  lips  to  hear 

once  more 
His  long-disused  and  half -forgotten  lore. 

For  both  could  baffle  Babel's  lingual  curse, 
And  speak  in  Bion's  Doric,  and  rehearse 
Cleanthes'  hymn  or  Virgil's  sounding  verse. 

And  oft  Pastorius  and  the  meek  old  man 
Argued  as  Quaker  and  as  Lutheran, 
Ending  in  Christian  love,  as  they  began. 

With  lettered  Lloyd  on  pleasant  morns  he 

strayed 

Where  Sommerhausen  over  vales  or  shade 
Looked  miles  away,  by  every  flower  de 
layed, 

Or  song  of  bird,  happy  and  free  with  one 
Who  loved,  like  him,  to  let  his  memory  run 
Over  old  fields  of  learning,  and  to  sun 

Himself  in  Plato's  wise  philosophies, 
And  dream  with  Philo  over  mysteries 
Whereof  the  dreamer  never  finds  the  keys  ; 

To  touch  all  themes  of  thought,  nor  weakly 

stop 

For  doubt  of  truth,  but  let  the  buckets  drop 
Deep  down  and  bring  the  hidden  waters 

up. 

For  there  was  freedom  in  that   wakening 

time 

Of  tender  souls  ;  to  differ  was  not  crime  ; 
The  varying   bells    made   up    the    perfect 
chime. 

On  lips  unlike  was  laid  the  altar's  coal, 
The   white,  clear   light,    tradition-colored, 

stole 
Through  the  stained  oriel  of  each  human 

soul. 

Gathered    from    many    sects,    the    Quaker 

brought 

His  old  beliefs,  adjusting  to  the  thought 
That  moved  his  soul  the  creed  his  fathers 

taught. 


One  faith  alone,  so  broad  that  all  mankind 
Within  themselves  its  secret  witness  find, 
The    soul's    communion  with    the    Eternal 
Mind, 

The    Spirit's   law,    the   Inward   Rule    and 

Guide, 

Scholar  and  peasant,  lord  and  serf,  allied, 
The  polished  Penn  and  Cromwell's  Ironside. 

As  still  in  Hemskerck's  Quaker  Meeting, 

face 

By  face  in  Flemish  detail,  we  may  trace 
How  loose-mouthed  boor  and  fine  ancestral 

grace 

Sat  in  close  contrast,  —  the  clipt-headed 
churl, 

Broad  market-dame,  and  simple  serving- 
girl 

By  skirt  of  silk  and  periwig  in  curl ! 

For  soul  touched  soul  ;  the  spiritual  treas 
ure-trove 

Made  all  men  equal,  none  could  rise  above 
Nor  sink  below  that  level  of  God's  love. 

So,  with  his  rustic  neighbors  sitting  down, 
The  homespun  frock    beside  the  scholar's 

gown, 
Pastorius  to  the  manners  of  the  town 

Added    the    freedom    of    the    woods,    and 

sought 

The  bookless  wisdom  by  experience  taught, 
And  learned  to  love  his  new-found  home, 

while  not 

Forgetful  of  the  old  ;  the  seasons  went 
Their  rounds,  and  somewhat  to  his  spirit 

lent 
Of  their  own  calm  and  measureless  content. 

Glad  even  to  tears,  he  heard  the  robin  sing 
His  song  of  welcome  to  the  Western  spring, 
And  bluebird  borrowing  from  the  sky  his 
wing. 

And  when  the  miracle  of  autumn  came, 
And  all  the  wroods  with  many-colored  flame 
Of  splendor,  making  summer's  greenness 
tame, 

Burned,  unconsumed,  a  voice  without  a 
sound. 


io8 


NARRATIVE   AND  LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Spake    to    him    from    each   kindled    bush 

around, 
And  made  the  strange,  new  landscape  holy 

ground  ! 

And  when  the  bitter  north-wind,  keen  and 

swift, 
Swept  the  white  street  and  piled  the  door- 

yivd  drift, 
He  exercised,  as  Friends  might  say,  his  gift 

Of  verse,  Dutch,  English,  Latin,  like  the 

hash 

Of  corn  and  beans  in  Indian  succotash  ; 
Dull,  doubtless,  but  with  here  and  there  a 

flash 

Of  wit  and  fine  conceit,  —  the  good  man's 

play 

Of  quiet  fancies,  meet  to  while  away 
The  slow  hours  measuring  off  an  idle  day. 

At  evening,  while  his  wife  put  on  her  look 
Of  love's  endurance,  from  its  niche  he 

took 
The  written  pages  of  his  ponderous  book. 

And  read,  in  half  the  languages  of  man, 
His  "  Rusca  Apium,"  which  with  bees  be 
gan, 
And  through  the  gamut  of  creation  ran. 

Or,  now  and  then,  the  missive  of  some  friend 
In  gray  Altorf  or  storied  Niirnberg  penned 
Dropped  in  upon  him  like  a  guest  to  spend 

The  night  beneath  his  roof-tree.     Mystical 
The  fair  Von  Merlau  spake  as  waters  fall 
And  voices  sound  in  dreams,  and  yet  withal 

Human  and  sweet,  as  if  each  far,  low  tone, 
Over  the  roses  of  her  gardens  blown 
Brought  the  warm  sense  of  beauty  all  her 
own. 

Wise    Spener   questioned  what   his  friend 

could  trace 

Of  spiritual  influx  or  of  saving  grace 
In  the  wild  natures  of  the  Indian  race. 

And  learned  Schurmberg,  fain,  at  times,  to 
look 

Prom  Talmud,  Koran,  Veds,  and  Penta 
teuch, 

Sought  out  his  pupil  in  his  far-off  nook, 


To  query  with  him  of  climatic  change, 
Of  bird,  beast,  reptile,  in  his  forest  range, 
Of  flowers  and  fruits  and  simples  new  and 
strange. 

And  thus  the  Old  and  New  World  reached 

their  hands 

Across  the  water,  and  the  friendly  lands 
Talked  with  each  other  from  their  severed 

strands. 

Pastorius  answered  all  :  while  seed  and  root 
Sent  from  his  new  home  grew  to  flower  and 

fruit 
Along  the  Rhine  and  at  the  Spessart's  foot ; 

And,  in  return,  the  flowers  his  boyhood  knew 
Smiled  at  his  door,  the  same  in  form  and 

hue, 
And  on  his  vines  the  Rhenish  clusters  grew. 

No  idler  he  ;  whoever  else  might  shirk, 
He  set  his  hand  to  every  honest  work,  — 
Farmer   and   teacher,  court   and   meeting 
clerk. 

Still  on  the  town  seal  his  device  is  found, 
Grapes,  flax,  and  thread-spool  on  a  trefoil 

ground, 
With    "Vinum,    Linum    et     Textrinum" 

wound. 

One  house  sufficed  for  gospel  and  for  law, 
Where  Paul  and  Grotius,  Scripture  text  and 

saw, 
Assured  the  good,  and  held  the  rest  in  awe 

Whatever  legal  maze  he  wandered  through, 
He  kept  the  Sermon  on  the  Mount  in  view, 
And  justice  always  into  mercy  grew. 

No  whipping-post   he   needed,  stocks,  nor 

jail, 
Nor  ducking-stool  ;  the  orchard-thief  gre*r 

pale 
At  his  rebuke,  the  vixen  ceased  to  rail, 

The  usurer's  grasp  released  the  forfeit  lanil  '., 
The  slanderer  faltered  at  the  witness-stand, 
And  all  men  took  his  counsel  for  command. 

Was  it  caressing  air,  the  brooding  love 
Of  tenderer  skies  than  German  land  knew 

of, 
Green  calm  below,  blue  quietness  above, 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM 


109 


Still  flow  of  water,  deep  repose  of  wood 
That,  with  a  sense  of  loving  Fatherhood 
And  childlike  trust  in  the  Eternal  Good, 

Softened  all  hearts,  and  dulled  the  edge  of 

hate, 
Hushed  strife,  and  taught  impatient  zeal  to 

wait 
The  slow  assurance  of  the  better  state  ? 

Who  knows  what  goadings  in  their  sterner 

way 

O'er  jagged  ice,  relieved  by  granite  gray, 
Blew  round  the  men  of  Massachusetts  Bay  ? 

What  hate  of  heresy  the  east-wind  woke  ? 
What  hints  of  pitiless   power  and  terror 

spoke 
In  waves  that  on  their  iron  coast-line  broke  ? 

Be  it  as  it  mny  :  within  the  Land  of  Penn 

The  sectary  yielded  to  the  citizen, 

And  peaceful  dwelt  the  many-creeded  men. 

Peace  brooded  over  all.     No  trumpet  stung 
The  air  to  madness,  and  no  steeple  flung 
Alarums  down  from  bells  at  midnight  rung. 

The  land  slept  well.     The  Indian  from  his 

face 
Washed  all  his  war-paint  off,  and  in  the 

place 
Of  battle-marches  sped  the  peaceful  chase, 

Or  wrought  for  wages  at  the  white  man's 

side,  — 

Giving  to  kindness  what  his  native  pride 
And  lazy  freedom  to  all  else  denied. 

And   well   the    curious    scholar   loved  the 

old 
Traditions     that     his    swarthy    neighbors 

told 
By  wigwara-lires  when  nights  were  growing 

cold, 

Discerned  the  fact  round  which  their  fancy 

drew 
Its  dreams,  and  held  their  childish  faith 

more  true 
To  God  and  vmn  than  half  the  creeds  he 

knew. 

The  desert  blossomed  round  him  ;  wheat- 
fields  rolled 


Beneath  the  warm  wind  waves  of  green 

and  gold  ; 
The  planted  ear  returned  its  hundred-fold. 

Great  clusters  ripened  in  a  warmer  sun 
Than  that  which  by  the  Rhine  stream  shines 

upon 
The  purpling  hillsides  with  low  vines  o'er- 

run. 

About  each  rustic  porch  the  humming-bird 
Tried  with  light  bill,  that  scarce  a   petal 

stirred, 

The  Old  World  flowers  to  virgin  soil  trans 
ferred  ; 

And  the  first-fruits  of  pear  and  apple, 
bending 

The  young  boughs  down,  their  gold  and 
russet  blending, 

Made  glad  his  heart,  familiar  odors  lend 
ing 

To  the  fresh   fragrance  of   the  birch  and 

pine, 

Life-everlasting,  bay,  and  eglantine, 
And  all  the  subtle  scents  the  woods  combine. 

Fair  First-Day  mornings,  steeped  in  sum 
mer  calm, 

Warm,  tender,  restful,  sweet  with  woodland 
bairn, 

Came  to  him,  like  some  mother-hallowed 
psalm 

To  the  tired  grinder  at  the  noisy  wheel 
Of  labor,  winding  off  from  memory's  reel 
A  golden  thread  of  music.     With  no  peal 

Of  bells  to  call  them  to  the  house  of 
praise, 

The  scattered  settlers  through  green  forest- 
ways 

Walked  meeting-ward.     In  reverent  amaze 

The    Indian  trapper  saw  them,   from  the 

dim 

Shade  of  the  alders  on  the  rivulet's  rim, 
Seek  the  Great  Spirit's  house  to  talk  with 

Him. 

There,  through  the  gathered  stillness  mul 
tiplied 

And  made  intense  by  sympathy,  outside 
The  sparrows  sang,  and  the  gold-robin  cried, 


110 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY    POEMS 


A-swing  upon  his  elm.     A  faint  perfume 
Breathed  through  the  open  windows  of  the 

room 
From  locust-trees,  heavy  with  clustered 

bloom. 

Thither,  perchance,    sore-tried    confessors 

came, 

Whose  fervor  jail  nor  pillory  could  tame, 
Proud  of  the  cropped  ears  meant  to  be  their 

shame, 

Men  who  had  eaten  slavery's  bitter  bread 
Jn  Indian  isles  ;  pale  women  who  had  bled 
Under   the    hangman's   lash,    and   bravely 
said 

God's  message  through  their  prison's  iron 

bars  ; 
And  gray  old  soldier-converts,  seamed  with 

scars 
From  every  stricken  field  of  England's  wars. 

Lowly  before  the  Unseen  Presence  knelt 
Each  waiting  heart,  till  haply  some  one  felt 
On  his  moved  lips  the  seal  of  silence  melt. 

Or,  without  spoken  words,  low  breathings 

stole 

Of  a  diviner  life  from  soul  to  soul, 
Baptizing  in  one  tender  thought  the  whole. 

When  shaken  hands  announced  the  meeting 

o'er, 

The  friendly  group  still  lingered  at  the  door, 
Greeting,  inquiring,  sharing  all  the  store 

Of  weekly  tidings.  Meanwhile  youth  and 
maid 

Down  the  green  vistas  of  the  woodland 
strayed, 

Whispered  and  smiled  and  oft  their  feet  de 
layed. 

Did    the   boy's    whistle   answer   back   the 

thrushes  ? 
Did  light  girl  laughter  ripple  through  the 

bushes, 
As   brooks    make    merry   over   roots    and 

rushes  ? 

Unvexed  the  sweet  air  seemed.     Without  a 

wound 

The  ear  of  silence  heard,  and  every  sound 
Its  place  in  nature's  fine  accordance  found. 


And  solemn  meeting,  summer  sky  ana  wood. 
Old  kindly  faces,  youth  and  maidenhood 
Seemed,  like  God's  new  creation,  very  good  1 

And,  greeting  all  with  quiet  smile  and  word, 
Pastorius  went  his  way.     The  unscared  bird 
Sang    at    his    side  ;    scarcely  the    squirrel 
stirred 

At  his  hushed  footstep  on  the  mossy  sod  ; 
And,  wheresoe'er  the  good  man  looked  or 

trod, 
He  felt  the  peace  of  nature  and  of  God. 

His  social  life  wore  no  ascetic  form, 

He  loved  all  beauty,  without  fear  of  harm, 

And  in  his  veins  his  Teuton  blood  ran  warm. 

Strict  to  himself,  of  other  men  no  spy, 
He  made  his  own  no  circuit-judge  to  try 
The  freer  conscience  of  his  neighbors  by. 

With  love  rebuking,  by  his  life  alone, 
Gracious   and   sweet,  the   better   way  was 

shown, 
The  joy  of  one,  who,  seeking  not  his  own, 

And  faithful  to  all  scruples,  finds  at  last 
The  thorns  and  shards  of  duty  overpast, 
And  daily  life,  beyond  his  hope's  forecast, 

Pleasant  and  beautiful  with  sight  and  sound 
And    flowers    upspringing    in    its    narrow 

round, 
And    all    his    days    with    quiet    gladness 

crowned. 

He  sang  not ;   but  if   sometimes  tempted 

strong, 
He    hummed    what   seemed   like    Altorf's 

Burschen-song, 
His  good  wife  smiled  and  did  not  count  it 

wrong. 

For   well  he  loved  his  boyhood's  brother 

band  ; 
His  Memory,  while  he  trod  the  New  World's 

strand, 
A  doable-danger  walked  the  Fatherland  ! 

If,  when  on  frosty  Christmas  eves  the  light 
Shone  or.  his  quiet  hearth,  he  missed  the 

right 
Of  Yult'-log,  Tree,  and  Christ-child  all  ID 

white  ; 


THE   PENNSYLVANIA   PILGRIM 


ill 


^Lnd   closed   his  eyes,  and  listened  to  the 

sweet 
Old  wait-songs  sounding  down  his  native 

street, 
And  watched  again  the  dancers'  mingling 

feet; 

Yet  not  the  less,  when  once  the  vision  passed, 
He  held  the  plain  and  sober  maxims  fast 
Of  the  dear  Friends  with  who»»  his  lot  was 
cast. 

Still  all  attuned  to  nature's  melodies 

He  loved  the  bird's  song  in  his  door-yard 

trees, 
And  the  low  hum  of  home-returning  bees  ; 

The  blossomed  flax,  the  tulip-trees  in  bloom 
Down  the  long  street,  the  beauty  and  per 
fume 

Of  apple-boughs,  the  mingling  light  and 
gloom 

Of  Sommerhausen's  woodlands,  woven 
through 

With  sun-threads  ;  and  the  music  the  wind 
drew, 

Mournful  and  sweet,  from  leaves  it  over 
blew. 

And  evermore,  beneath  this  outward  sense, 
And    through   the    common    sequence    of 

events, 
He  felt  the  guiding  hand  of  Providence 

Reach  out  of  space.     A  Voice  spake  in  his 

ear, 

And  lo  !    all  other  voices  far  and  near 
Died  at  that  whisper,  full  of  meanings  clear. 

The  Light  of  Life  shone  round  him  ;  one  by 

one 
The  wandering  lights,  that  all-misleading 

run, 
Went  out  like  candles  paling  in  the  sun. 

That   Light    he    followed,    step    by    step, 

where'er 

It  led,  as  in  the  vision  of  the  seer 
The  wheels  moved  as  the  spirit  in  the  clear 

And  terrible  crystal  moved,  with  all  their 

eyes 

Watching  the  living  splendor  sink  or  rise, 
£ts  will  their  will,  knowing  no  otherwise. 


Within  himself  he  found  the  law  of  right, 
He  walked   by  faith    and  not    the    letter's 

sight, 
And  read  his  Bible  by  the  Inward  Light. 

And  if  sometimes  the  slaves  of  form  and 

rule, 
Frozen  in  their  creeds  like  fish  in  winter's 

pool, 
Tried  the  large  tolerance  of  his  liberal 

school, 

His  door  was  free  to  men  of  every  name, 
He  welcomed   all   the   seeking   souls  who 

came, 
And  no  man's  faith  he  made  a  cause  of 

blame. 

But  best  he  loved  in  leisure  hours  to  see 
His  own  dear  Friends  sit  by  him  knee  to 

knee, 
In  social  converse,  genial,  frank,  and  free. 

There  sometimes  silence  (it  were  hard  to 

tell 

Who  owned  it  first)  upon  the  circle  fell, 
Hushed  Anna's  busy  wheel,  and  laid  its  spell 

On  the   black  boy  who  grimaced   by  the 

hearth, 

To  solemnize  his  shining  face  of  mirth  ; 
Only  the  old  clock  ticked  amidst  the  dearth 

Of   sound  ;  nor  eye  was  raised   nor   hand 

was  stirred 

In  that  soul-sabbath,  till  at  last  some  word 
Of  tender  counsel  or  low  prayer  was  heard. 

Then  guests,  who  lingered  but  farewell  to 
say 

And  take  love's  message,  went  their  home 
ward  way  ; 

So  passed  in  peace  the  guileless  Quaker's 
day. 

His  was   the    Christian's   unsung   Age   of 

Gold, 

A  truer  idyl  than  the  bards  have  told 
Of  Arno's  banks  or  Arcady  of  old. 

Where   still   the    Friends   their    place   of 

burial  keep, 

And  century-rooted  mosses  o'er  it  creep, 
The    Niirnberg  scholar   and  his  helpmeet 

sleep. 


112 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


And  Anna's  aloe  ?     If  it  flowered  at  last 
In  Bartram's  garden,  did  John  Woolnian 

cast 
A  glance  upon  it  as  he  meekly  passed  ? 

And  did  a  secret  sympathy  possess 
That  tender  soul,  and  for  the  slave's  redress 
Lend   hope,  strength,  patience  ?     It  were 
vain  to  guess. 

Nay,  were  the  plant  itself  but  mythical, 
Set  in  the  fresco  of  tradition's  wall 
Like  Jotham's   bramble,  mattereth  not  at 
all. 

Enough  to  know  that,  through  tne  winter's 

frost 

And  summer's  heat,  no  seed  of  truth  is  lost, 
And  every  duty  pays  at  last  its  cost. 

For,  ere  Pastorius  left  the  sun  and  air, 
God  sent  the  answer  to  his  life-long  prayer  ; 
The  child  was  born  beside  the  Delaware, 

Who,  in  the  power  a  holy  purpose  lends, 
Guided  his  people  unto  nobler  ends, 
And  left    them  worthier   of  the  name  of 
Friends. 

And  lo  !  the  fulness  of  the  time  has  come, 
And  over  all  the  exile's  Western  home, 
From  sea  to  sea  the  flowers  of  freedom 
bloom  ! 

And   joy-bells   ring,    and    silver   trumpets 

blow  ; 

But  not  for  thee,  Pastorius  !     Even  so 
The    world    forgets,    but   the  wise  angels 

know. 


KING   VOLMER   AND    ELSIE 

AFTER    THE    DANISH     OF    CHRISTIAN 
WINTER 

[A  Danish  gentleman,  Mr.  P.  Taft,  sent  the 
poet  an  unrhymed  outline  in  English  of  Win 
ter's  ballad.] 

WHERE,  over  heathen  doom-rings  and  gray 

stones  of  the  Horg, 
In  its  little  Christian  city  stands  the  church 

of  Vordingborg, 


In  merry  mood  King  Volmer  sat,  forgetful 

of  his  power, 
As  idle  as  the  Goose  of  Gold  that  brooded 

on  his  tower. 

Out  spake  the  King  to  Henrik,  his  young 

and  faithful  squire  : 
"  Dar'st  trust  thy  little  Elsie,  the  maid  of 

thy  desire  ?  " 
"Of  all  the  men  in  Denmark  sne  loveth 

only  me  : 
As  true  to  me  is  Elsie  as  thy  Lily  is  to 

thee." 

Loud  laughed  the  king  :  "  To-morrow  shall 

bring  another  day, 
When  I  myself  will  test  her  ;  she  will  not 

say  me  nay." 
Thereat  the  lords  and  gallants,  that  round 

about  him  stood, 
Wagged   all   their   heads   in   concert   and 

smiled  as  courtiers  should. 

The  gray  lark  sings  o'er  Vordingborg,  and 

on  the  ancient  town 
From    the   tall    tower   of   Valdemar    the 

Golden  Goose  looks  down  ; 
The  yellow  grain  is  waving  in  the  pleasant 

wind  of  morn, 
The  wood  resounds  with  cry  of  hounds  and 

blare  of  hunter's  horn. 

In  the  garden  of  her  father  little  Elsie  sits 

and  spins, 
And,  singing  with  the  early  birds,  her  daily 

task  begins. 
Gay  tulips    bloom   and   sweet   mint   curls 

around  her  garden-bower, 
But  she  is  sweeter  than  the  mint  and  fairer 

than  the  flower. 

About  her  form  her  kirtle  blue  clings  IOT- 

ingly,  and,  white 
As  snow,  her  loose  sleeves  only  leave  her 

small,  round  wrists  in  sight  ; 
Below,  the  modest  petticoat  can  only  half 

conceal 
The  motion  of  the  lightest  foot  that  ever 

turned  a  wheel. 

The  cat  sits  purring  at  her  side,  bees  hum 

in  sunshine  warm  ; 
But,  look  !  she  starts,  she  lifts  her  face 

she  shades  it  with  her  arm. 


KING   VOLMER   AND    ELSIE 


And,  hark  !  a  train  of  horsemen,  with  sound 
of  dog  and  horn, 

Come  leaping  o'er  the  ditc'nes,  come  tramp 
ling  down  the  corn  ! 

Merrily  rang  the  bridle-reins,  and  scarf  and 

plume  streamed  gay, 
As  fast  beside  her  father's  gate  the  riders 

held  their  way  ; 
And  one  was  brave  in  scarlet  cloak,  with 

golden  spur  on  heel, 
And,  as  he  checked  his  foaming  steed,  the 

maiden  checked  her  wheel. 

"  All  hail  among  thy  roses,  the  fairest  rose 
to  me  ! 

For  weary  months  in  secret  my  heart  has 
longed  for  thee  !  " 

What  noble  knight  was  this  ?  What  words 
for  modest  maiden's  ear  ? 

She  dropped  a  lowly  courtesy  of  bashful- 
ness  and  fear. 

She  lifted  up  her  spinning-wheel  ;  she  fain 

would  seek  the  door, 
Trembling  in  every  limb,  her  cheek  with 

blushes  crimsoned  o'er. 
"  Nay,  fear  me    not,"  the  rider  said,  "  I 

offer  heart  and  hand, 
Bear  witness   these    good    Danish  knights 

who  round  about  me  stand. 

"  I  grant  you  time  to  think  of  this,  to  an 
swer  as  you  may, 

For  to-morrow,  little  Elsie,  shall  bring 
another  day." 

He  spake  the  old  phrase  slyly,  as  glancing 
round  his  train, 

He  saw  his  merry  followers  seek  to  hide 
their  smiles  in  vain. 

"  The  snow  of  pearls  I  '11  scatter  in  your 

curls  of  golden  hair, 
I  '11  line  with  furs  the  velvet  of  the  kirtle 

that  you  wear  ; 
All  precious  gems  shall  twine  your  neck  ; 

and  in  a  chariot  gay 
You  shall  ride,  my  little  Elsie,  behind  four 

steeds  of  gray. 

"  And  harps  shall  sound,  and  flutes  shall 
play,  and  brazen  lamps  shall  glow  ; 

On  marble  floors  your  feet  shall  weave  the 
dances  to  and  fro. 


At  frosty  eventide  for  us  the  blazing  hearth 

shall  shine, 
While  at  our  ease  we  play  at  draughts,  and 

drink  the  blood-red  wine." 

Then  Elsie  raised  her  head  and  met  her 

wooer  face  to  face  ; 
A  roguish  smile  shone  in  her  eye  and  on 

her  lip  found  place. 
Back   from    her   low    white   forehead   the 

curls  of  gold  she  threw, 
And  lifted  up  her  eyes  to  his,  steady  and 

clear  and  blue. 

"  I  am  a  lowly  peasant,  and  you  a  gallant 

knight  ; 
I  will  not  trust  a  love  that  soon  may  cool 

and  turn  to  slight. 
If   you   would   wed   me   henceforth   be   a 

peasant,  not  a  lord  ; 
I  bid  you  hang  upon  the  wall  your  tried 

and  trusty  sword." 

"  To  please  you,  Elsie,  I  will  lay  keen  Dy 

nadel  away, 
And  in  its  place  will  swing  the  scythe  and 

mow  your  father's  hay." 
"Nay,  but  your  gallant  scarlet  cloak  my 

eyes  can  never  bear  ; 
A  Vadmal  coat,  so  plain  and  gray,  is  all 

that  you  must  wear." 

*•  Well,  Vadmal  will  I  v/ear  for  you,"  the 

rider  gayly  spoke, 
"  And  on  the  Lord's  high  altar  I  '11  lay  my 

scarlet  cloak." 
"  But  mark,"  she  said,  "  no  stately  horse 

my  peasant  love  must  ride, 
A  yoke  of  steers  before  the  plough  is  all 

that  he  must  guide." 

The  knight  looked  down  upon  his  steed : 

"  Well,  let  him  wander  free  : 
No  other  man  must  ride  the  horse  that  has 

been  backed  by  me. 
Henceforth  I  '11  tread  the   furrow  and  to 

my  oxen  talk, 
If  only  little  Elsie   beside  my  plough  will 

walk." 

"  You  must  take  from  out  your  cellar  cask 
of  wine  and  flask  and  can  ; 

The  homely  mead  I  brew  you  may  serve  % 
peasant-man." 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


"  Most  willingly,  fair  Elsie,  I  '11  drink  that 

mead  of  thine, 
And  leave  my  minstrel's  thirsty  throat  to 

drain  my  generous  wine." 

"  Now    break    your    shield    asunder,    and 

shatter  sign  and  boss, 
Unmeet   for  peasant  -  wedded  arms,   your 

knightly  knee  across. 
And  pull  me  down  your  castle  from  top  to 

basement  wall, 
And  let  your  plough  trace  furrows  in  the 

ruins  of  your  hall !  " 

Then  smiled  he  with  a  lofty  pride  ;  right 

well  at  last  he  knew 
The   maiden  of  the  spinning-wheel  was  to 

her  troth-plight  true. 
"  Ah,  roguish  little  Elsie  !  you  act  your  part 

full  well  : 
You  know  that  I  must  bear  my  shield  and 

in  my  castle  dwell  ! 

"  The  lions  ramping  on  that  shield  between 

the  hearts  aflame 
Keep    watch   o'er    Denmark's   honor,   and 

guard  her  ancient  name. 
For  know  that  I  am  Volmer  ;  I  dwell  in 

yonder  towers, 
Who  ploughs  them  ploughs  up  Denmark, 

this  goodly  nome  of  ours  ! 

•'  I  tempt  no  more,  fair  Elsie  !  your  heart 

I  know  is  true  ; 
Would  God  that  all  our  maidens  were  good 

and  pure  as  you  ! 
Well  have  you  pleased  your  monarch,  and 

he  shall  well  repay  ; 
God's  peace  !   Farewell  !     To-morrow  will 

bring  another  day  !  " 

He  lifted  up  his  bridle  hand,  he  spurred  his 

good  steed  then, 
And  like  a  whirl-blast  swept  away  with  all 

his  gallant  men. 
The  steel  hoofs  beat  the  rocky  path  ;  again 

on  winds  of  morn 
The  wood  resounds  with  cry  of  hounds  and 

blare  of  hunter's  horn. 

"  Thou  true  and  ever  faithful !  "  the  listen 
ing  Henrik  cried  ; 

And,  leaping  o'er  the  green  hedge,  he  stood 
by  Elsie's  side. 


None  saw  the  fond  embracing,  save,  shin 
ing  from  afar, 

The  Golden  Goose  that  watched  them  from 
the  tower  of  Valdemar. 

O   darling  girls  of  Denmark  !    of  all   the 

flowers  that  throng 
Her  vales  of  spring  the  fairest,  I  sing  for 

you  my  song. 
No  praise  as  yours  so  bravely  rewards  the 

singer's  skill  ; 
Thank  God  !  of  maids  like  Elsie  the  land 

has  plenty  still ! 


THE   THREE   BELLS 

BENEATH  the  low-hung  night  cloud 
That  raked  her  splintering  mast 

The  good  ship  settled  slowly, 
The  cruel  leak  gained  fast. 

Over  the  awful  ocean 

Her  signal  guns  pealed  out. 

Dear  God  !  was  that  Thy  answer 
From  the  horror  round  about  ? 

A  voice  came  down  the  wild  wind, 

"  Ho  !  ship  ahoy  !  "  its  cry  : 

"  Our  stout  Three  Bells  of  Glasgow 

Shall  lay  till  daylight  by  !  " 

Hour  after  hour  crept  slowly, 
Yet  on  the  heaving  swells 

Tossed  up  and  down  the  ship-lights, 
The  lights  of  the  Three  Bells  ! 

And  ship  to  ship  made  signals, 
Man  answered  back  to  man, 

While  oft,  to  cheer  and  hearten, 
The  Three  Bells  nearer  ran  ; 

And  the  captain  from  her  taffrail 

Sent  down  his  hopeful  cry  : 
"  Take  heart  !     Hold  on  !  "  lie  shouted 
«  The  Three  Bells  shall  lay  by  1 " 

All  night  across  the  waters 

The  tossing  lights  shone  clear  ; 

All  night  from  reeling  taffrail 
The  Three  Bells  sent  her  cheer. 

And  when  the  dreary  watches 
Of  storm  and  darkness  passed, 


JOHN   UNDERBILL 


Just  as  the  wreck  lurched  under, 
All  souls  were  saved  at  last. 

Sail  on,  Three  Bells,  forever, 
In  grateful  memory  sail  ! 

Ring  on,  Three  Bells  of  rescue, 
Above  the  wave  and  gale  ! 

Type  of  the  Love  eternal, 
Repeat  the  Master's  cry, 

As  tossing  through  our  darkness 
The  lights  of  God  draw  nigh  ! 


JOHN    UNDERHILL 

A  SCORE  of  years  had  come  and  gone 
Since  the    Pilgrims  landed    on    Plymouth 

stone, 

When  Captain  Underbill,  bearing  scars 
From  Indian  ambush  and  Flemish  wars, 
Left  three -hilled  Boston  and  wandered 

down, 
East  by  north,  to  Cocheco  town. 

With  Vane  the  younger,  in  council  sweet, 
He  had  sat  at  Anna  Hutchinson's  feet, 
And,  when  the  bolt  of  banishment  fell 
On  the  head  of  his  saintly  oracle, 
He  had  shared  her  ill  as  her  good  report, 
And    braved    the    wrath   of   the    General 
Court. 

He  shook  from  his  feet  as  he  rode  away 

The  dust  of  the  Massachusetts  Bay. 

The  world  might  bless  and  the  world  might 

ban, 

What  did  it  matter  the  perfect  man. 
To  whom  the  freedom  of  earth  was  given, 
Proof  against  sin,  and  sure  of  heaven  ? 

He  cheered  his  heart  as  he  rode  along 
With  screed  of  Scripture  and  holy  song, 
Or  thought  how  he  rode   with  his   lances 

free 

By  the  Lower  Rhine  and  the  Zuyder-Zee, 
Till    his    wood -path   grew  to   a  trodden 

road, 
And  Hilton  Point  in  the  distance  showed. 

He  saw  the   church  with  the   block-house 

nigh, 

The  two  fair  rivers,  the  flakes  thereby, 
And,  tacking  to  windward,  low  and  crank, 
The  little  shallop  from  Strawberry  Bank  ; 


And    he   rose  in   his    stirrups   and    looked 

abroad 
Over  land  and  water,  and  praised  the  Lord. 

Goodly  and  stately  and  grave  to  see, 

Into  the  clearing's  space  rode  he, 

With  the  sun  on  the  hilt  of  his  sword  in 

sheath, 

And  his  silver  buckles  and  spurs  beneath, 
And  the  settlers  welcomed  him,  one  and  alL 
From  swift  Quampeagan  to  Gonic  Fall. 

And  he  said  to  the  elders  :  "  Lo,  I  come 
As  the  way  seemed  open  to  seek  a  home. 
Somewhat  the  Lord  hath  wrought  by  my 

hands 

In  the  Narragansett  and  Netherlands, 
And  if  here  ye  have  work  for  a  Christian 

man, 
I  will  tarry,  and  serve  ye  as  best  I  can. 

"  I  boast  not  of  gifts,  but  fain  would  own 
The  wonderful  favor  God  hath  shown, 
The  special  mercy  vouchsafed  one  day 
On  the  shore  of  Narragansett  Bay, 
As  I  sat,  with  my  pipe,  from  the  camp  aside, 
And  mused  like  Isaac  at  eventide. 

"  A  sudden  sweetness  of  peace  I  found, 
A  garment  of  gladness  wrapped  me  round  ; 
I  felt  from  the  law  of  works  released, 
The  strife  of  the  flesh  and  spirit  ceased, 
My  faith  to  a  full  assurance  grew, 
And  all  I  had  hoped  for  myself  I  knew. 

"Now,   as    God    appointeth,    I    keep   my 

way, 

I  shall  not  stumble,  I  shall  not  stray  ; 
He  hath  taken  away  my  fig-leaf  dress, 
I  wear  the  robe  of  His  righteousness  ; 
And  the  shafts  of  Satan  no  more  avail 
Than  Pequot  arrows  on  Christian  mail." 

"  Tarry  with  us,"  the  settlers  cried, 
"  Thou  man  of  God,  as  our  ruler  and  guide." 
And  Captain  Underbill  bowed  his  head. 
"  The  will  of  the  Lord  be  done  ! "  he  said. 
And  the  morrow  beheld  him  sitting  down 
In  the  ruler's  seat  in  Cocheco  town. 

And  he  judged  therein  as  a  just  man  should  ; 
His  words  were  wise  and  his  rule  was  good  ; 
He  coveted  not  his  neighbor's  land, 
From  the  holding  of   bribes  he  shook  bis 
hand  ; 


n6 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY  POEMS 


And  through   the   camps  of  the   heathen 

ran 
A  wholesome  fear  of  the  valiant  man. 

But  the  heart  is  deceitful,  the  good  Book 

saith, 

And  life  hath  ever  a  savor  of  death. 
Through  hymns  of   triumph   the   tempter 

calls, 

And  whoso  thinketh  he  standeth  falls. 
Alas  !  ere  their  round  the  seasons  ran, 
There  was  grief  in  the  soul  of  the  saintly 


The  tempter's  arrows  that  rarely  fail 
Had  found  the  joints  of  his  spiritual  mail ; 
And  men  took  note  of  his  gloomy  air, 
The  shame  in  his  eye,  the  halt  in  his  prayer, 
The  signs  of  a  battle  lost  within, 
The  pain  of  a  soul  in  the  coils  of  sin. 

Then  a  whisper  of  scandal  linked  his  name 
With  broken  vows  and  a  life  of  blame  ; 
And  the  people  looked  askance  on  him 
As  he  walked  among  them  sullen  and  grim, 
111  at  ease,  and  bitter  of  word, 
And  prompt  of  quarrel  with  hand  or  sword. 

None  knew  how,  with  prayer  and  fasting 

still, 

He  strove  in  the  bonds  of  his  evil  will  ; 
But  he  shook  himself  like  Samson  at  length, 
And  girded  anew  his  loins  of  strength, 
And  bade  the  crier  go  up  and  down 
And  call  together  the  wondering  town. 

Jeer  and  murmur  and  shaking  of  head 
Ceased  as  he  rose  in  his  place  and  said  : 
"  Men,  brethren,  and  fathers,  well  ye  know 
How  I  came  among  you  a  year  ago, 
Strong  in  the  faith  that  my  soul  was  freed 
From  sin  of  feeling,  or  thought,  or  deed. 

"I  have  sinned,  I  own  it  with  grief  and 

shame, 

But  not  with  a  lie  on  my  lips  I  came. 
In  my  blindness  I  verily  thought  my  heart 
Swept  and  garnished  in  every  part. 
He  chargeth  His  angels  with  folly  ;    He 

sees 
The  heavens  unclean.    Was  I  more  than 

these  ? 

"  I  urge  no  plea.  At  your  feet  I  lay 
The  trust  you  gave  me,  and  go  my  way. 


Hate  me  or  pity  me,  as  you  will, 
The  Lord  will  have  mercy  on  sinners  still ; 
And  I,  who  am  chiefest,  say  to  all, 
Watch  and  pray,  lest  ye  also  fall." 

No  voice  made  answer  :  a  sob  so  low 

That  only  his  quickened  ear  could  know 

Smote  his  heart  with  a  bitter  pain, 

As  into  the  forest  he  rode  again, 

And    the    veil    of   its   oaken   leaves   shut 

down 
On  his  latest  glimpse  of  Cocheco  town. 

Crystal-clear  on  the  man  of  sin 

The  streams  flashed  up,  and  the  sky  shone 

in  ; 

On  his  cheek  of  fever  the  cool  wind  blew, 
The  leaves  dropped  on  him  their  tears  of 

dew, 
And  angels  of   God,   in    the   pure,  sweet 

guise 
Of  flowers,  looked  on  him  with  sad  surprise. 

Was  his  ear  at  fault  that  brook  and  breeze 
Sang  in  their  saddest  of  minor  keys  ? 
What  was   it   the    mournful    wood-thrush 

said? 

What  whispered  the  pine-trees  overhead  ? 
Did  he  hear  the  Voice  on  his  lonely  way 
That  Adam  heard  in  the  cool  of  day  ? 

Into  the  desert  alone  rode  he, 

Alone  with  the  Infinite  Purity  ; 

And,  bowing  his  soul  to  its  tender  rebuke, 

As  Peter  did  to  the  Master's  look, 

He    measured   his   path   with    prayers   of 

pain 
For  peace  with  God  and  nature  again. 

And  in  after  years  to  Cocheco  came 
The  bruit  of  a  once  familiar  name  ; 
How  among  the  Dutch  of  New  Nether 
lands, 

From  wild  Danskamer  to  Haarlem  sands, 
A  penitent  soldier  preached  the  Word, 
And   smote    the    heathen    with    Gideon's 
sword  ! 

And  the  heart  of  Boston  was  glad  to  hear 
How  he  harried  the  foe  on  the  long  fron 
tier, 

And  heaped  on  the  land  against  him  barred 
The  coals  of  his  generous  watch  and  ward 
Frailest  and  bravest  !  the  Bay  State  still 
Counts  with  her  worthies  John  Underbill. 


THE  WITCH   OF  WENHAM 


117 


CONDUCTOR   BRADLEY 

A  railway  conductor  who  lost  his  life  in  an 
accident  on  a  Connecticut  railway,  May  9, 1873. 

CONDUCTOR   BRADLEY,    (always   may  his 

name 
Be  said  with  reverence  !)  as  the  swift  doom 

came, 
Smitten  to  death,  a  crushed  and  mangled 

frame, 

Sank,  with  the  brake  he  grasped  just  where 

he  stood 

To  do  the  utmost  that  a  brave  man  could, 
And  die,  if  needful,  as  a  true  man  should. 

Men  stooped  above  him  ;  women  dropped 

their  tears 
On   that   poor  wreck  beyond  all  hopes  or 

fears, 
Lost  in  the  strength  and  glory  of  his  years. 

What  heard  they  ?     Lo  !  the  ghastly  lips 

of  pain, 
Dead    to   all  thought  save  duty's,  moved 

again  : 
"  PU'J  out  the  signals  for  the  other  train  !  " 

No  nobler  utterance  since  the  world  began 
From  lips  of  saint  or  martyr  ever  ran, 
Electric,  through  the  sympathies  of  man. 

Ah  me  !   how  poor  and  noteless  seem  to  this 
The  sick-bed  dramas  of  self-consciousness, 
Our  sensual  fears   of   pain   and  hopes   of 
bliss  ! 

Oh,   grand,   supreme  endeavor  !      Not   in 

vain 
That  last  brave  act  of  failing  tongue  and 

brain  ! 
Freighted  with  life  the  downward  rushing 

train, 

Following  the  wrecked  one,  as  wave  follows 

wave, 
Obeyed  the  warning  which  the  dead  lips 

gave. 
Others  he  saved,  himself  he  could  not  save. 

Nay,  the  lost  life  was  saved.     He  is  not  dead 
Who  in  his  record  still  the  earth  shall  tread 
With  God's  clear  aureole  shining  round  his 
head. 


We  bow  as  in  the  dust,  with  all  our  pride 
Of    virtue    dwarfed    the    noble    deed   be 
side. 
God  give  us  grace  to  live  as  Bradley  died  ! 


THE   WITCH    OF   WENHAM 


The  house  is  still  standing  in  Danvers, 
where,  it  is  said,  a  suspected  witch  was  con- 
fined  overnight  in  the  attic,  which  was  bolted 
fast.  In  the  morning-,  when  the  constable  came 
to  take  her  to  !Salem  for  trial,  she  was  missing, 
although  the  door  was  still  bolted.  Her  escape 
was  doubtless  aided  by  her  friends,  btit  at  the 
time  it  was  attributed  to  Satanic  interference. 

I 

ALONG  Crane  River's  sunny  slopes 
Blew  warm  the  wrinds  of  May, 

And  over  Naumkeag's  ancient  oaks 
The  green  outgrew  the  gray. 

The  grass  was  green  on  Rial-side, 

The  early  birds  at  will 
Waked  up  the  violet  in  its  dell, 

The  wind-flower  on  its  hill. 

"  Where  go  you,  in  your  Sunday  coat, 
Son  Andrew,  tell  me,  pray." 

"  For  striped  perch  in  Wenham  Lake 
I  go  to  fish  to-day." 

"  Unharmed  of  thee  in  Wenham  Lake 

The  mottled  perch  shall  be  : 

A  blue-eyed  witch  sits  on  the  bank 

And  weaves  her  net  for  thee. 

"  She  weaves  her  golden  hair  ;  she  sings 

Her  spell-song  low  and  faint  ; 
The  wickedest  witch  in  Salem  jail 
Is  to  that  girl  a  saint." 

"  Nay,  mother,  hold  thy  cruel  tongue  .• 
God  knows,"  the  young  man  cried, 

"  He  never  made  a  whiter  soul 
Than  hers  by  Wenham  side. 

"  She  tends  her  mother  sick  and  blind, 

And  every  want  supplies  ; 
To  her  above  the  blessed  Book 
She  lends  her  soft  blue  eyes. 

"  Her  voice  is  glad  with  holy  songs, 
Her  lips  are  sweet  with  prayer  j 


n8 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY    POEMS 


Go  where  you  will,  in  ten  miles  round 
Is  none  more  good  and  fair." 

"  Son  Andrew,  for  the  love  of  God 

And  of  thy  mother,  stay  !  " 
She  clasped  her  hands,  she  wept  aloud, 

But  Andrew  rode  away. 

"  O  reverend  sir,  my  Andrew's  soul 
The  Wenhani  witch  has  caught  ; 

She  holds  him  with  the  curled  gold 
Whereof  her  snare  is  wrought. 

"  She  charms  him  with  her  great  blue  eyes, 

She  binds  him  with  her  hair  ; 
Oh,  break  the  spell  with  holy  words, 

Unbind  him  with  a  prayer  ! " 

"  Take  heart,"  the  painful  preacher  said, 

"  This  mischief  shall  not  be  ; 
The  w'tch  shall  perish  in  her  sins 

And  Andrew  shall  go  free. 

"  Our  poor  Ann  Putnam  testifies 

She  saw  her  weave  a  spell, 
Bare-armed,  loose-haired,  at  full  of  moon, 

Around  a  dried-up  well. 

"  '  Spring  up,  O  well !  '  she  softly  sang 

The  Hebrew's  old  refrain 
(For  Satan  uses  Bible  words), 

Till  water  flowed  amain. 

"  And  many  a  goodwife  heard  her  speak 

By  Wenham  water  words 
That  made  the  buttercups  take  wings 

And  turn  to  yellow  birds. 

"They  say  that  swarming  wild  bees  seek 

The  hive  at  her  command  ; 
Ajid  fishes  swim  to  take  their  food 

From  out  her  dainty  hand. 

"  Meek  as  she  sits  in  meeting-time, 

The  godly  minister 
Notes  well  the  spell  that  doth  compel 

The  young  men's  eyes  to  her. 

"The  mole  upon  her  dimpled  chin 

Is  Satan's  seal  and  sign  ; 
Her  lips  are  red  with  evil  bread 

And  stain  of  unblest  wine. 

"For  Tituba,  my  Indian,  saith 
At  Quasycung  she  took 


The  Black  Man's  godless  sacrament 
And  signed  his  dreadful  book. 

"  Last  night  my  sore-afflicted  child 
Against  the  young  witch  cried. 

To  take  her  Marshal  Herrick  rides 
Even  now  to  Wenham  side." 

The  marshal  in  his  saddle  sat, 

His  daughter  at  his  knee  ; 
"  I  go  to  fetch  that  arrant  witch, 

Thy  fair  playmate,"  quoth  he. 

"  Her  spectre  walks  the  parsonage, 
And  haunts  both  hall  and  stair  ; 

They  know  her  by  the  great  blue  eyes 
And  floating  gold  of  hair." 

"  They  lie,  they  lie,  my  father  dear  ! 

No  foul  old  witch  is  she, 
But  sweet  and  good  and  crystal-purfc 

As  Wenham  waters  be." 

«  I  tell  thee,  child,  the  Lord  hath  set 

Before  us  good  and  ill, 
And  woe  to  all  whose  carnal  loves 

Oppose  His  righteous  will. 

"  Between  Him  and  the  powers  of  hell 
Choose  thou,  my  child,  to-day  : 

No  sparing  hand,  no  pitying  eye, 
When  God  commands  to  slay  !  " 

He  went  his  way  ;  the  old  wives  shook 

With  fear  as  he  drew  nigh  ; 
The  children  in  the  dooryards  held 

Their  breath  as  he  passed  by. 

Too    well    they    knew    the     gaunt    gray 
horse 

The  grim  witch-hunter  rode, 
The  pale  Apocalyptic  beast 

By  grisly  Death  bestrode. 


II 


Oh,  fair  the  face  of  Wenham  Lake 
Upon  the  young  girl's  shone, 

Her  tender  mouth,  her  dreaming  eyes, 
Her  yellow  hair  outblown. 

By  happy  youth  and  love  attuned 

To  natural  harmonies, 
The  singing  birds,  the  whispering  wind* 

She  sat  beneath  the  trees. 


THE  WITCH   OF   WENHAM 


1 19 


Sat  shaping  for  her  bridal  dress 

Her  mother's  wedding  gown, 
When  lo  !  the  marshal,  writ  in  hand, 

From  Alford  hill  rode  down. 

His  face  was  hard  with  cruel  fear, 
He  grasped  the  maiden's  hands  : 

"  Come  with  me  unto  Salem  town, 
For  so  the  law  commands  !  " 

H  Oh,  let  me  to  my  mother  say 

Farewell  before  I  go  !  " 
He  closer  tied  her  little  hands 

Unto  his  saddle  bow. 

"Unhand  me,"  cried  she  piteously, 
"For  thy  sweet  daughter's  sake." 

"  I  '11  keep  my  daughter  safe,"  he  said, 
"  From  the  witch  of  Wenham  Lake." 

"  Oh,  leave  me  for  my  mother's  sake, 

She  needs  my  eyes  to  see." 
"  Those  eyes,  young  witch,  the  crows  shall 
peck 

From  off  the  gallows-tree." 

He  bore  her  to  a  farm-house  old 

And  up  its  stairway  long, 
And  closed  on  her  the  garret-door 

With  iron  bolted  strong. 

The  day  died  out,  the  night  came  down  : 

Her  evening  prayer  she  said, 
While,    through   the    dark,   strange   faces 
seemed 

To  mock  her  as  she  prayed. 

The  present  horror  deepened  all 
The  fears  her  childhood  knew  ; 

The  awe  wherewith  the  air  was  filled 
With  every  breath  she  drew. 

And  could  it  be,  she  trembling  asked, 

Some  secret  thought  or  sin 
Had  shut  good  angels  from  her  heart 

And  let  the  bad  ones  in? 

Had  she  in  some  forgotten  dream 

Let  go  her  hold  on  Heaven, 
And  sold  herself  unwittingly 

To  spirits  unforgiven  ? 

Dh,     weird     and     still     the    dark     hours 

passed  ; 
No  human  sound  she  heard, 


But  up  and  down  the  chimney  stack 
The  swallows  moaned  and  stirred. 

And  o'er  her,  with  a  dread  surmise 

Of  evil  sight  and  sound, 
The  blind  bats  on  their  leathern  wings 

Went  wheeling  round  and  round. 

Low  hanging  in  the  midnight  sky 
Looked  in  a  half-faced  moon. 

Was  it  a  dream,  or  did  she  hear 
Her  lover's  whistled  tune  ? 

She  forced  the  oaken  scuttle  back  ; 

A  whisper  reached  her  ear  : 
"  Slide  down  the  roof  to  me,"  it  said, 

"  So  softly  none  may  hear." 

She  slid  along  the  sloping  roof 
Till  from  its  eaves  she  hung, 

And  felt  the  loosened  shingles  yield 
To  which  her  fingers  clung. 

Below,  her  lover  stretched  his  hands 
And  touched  her  feet  so  small ; 

"  Drop  down  to  me,  dear  heart,"  he  said, 
"  My  arms  shall  break  the  fall." 

He  set  her  on  his  pillion  soft, 
Her  arms  about  him  twined  ; 

And,  noiseless  as  if  velvet-shod, 
They  left  the  house  behind. 

But  when  they  reached  the  open  way, 

Full  free  the  rein  he  cast  ; 
Oh,  never  through  the  mirk  midnight 

Rode  man  and  maid  more  fast. 

Along  the  wild  wood-paths  they  sped, 
The  bridgeless  streams  they  swam  ; 

At  set  of  moon  they  passed  the  Bass, 
At  sunrise  Agawam. 

At  high  noon  on  the  Merrimac 

The  ancient  ferryman 
Forgot,  at  times,  his  idle  oars, 

So  fair  a  freight  to  scan. 

And  when  from  off  his  grounded  boat 
lie  saw  them  mount  and  ride, 

"God  keep  her  from  the  evil  eye, 
And  harm  of  witch  !  "  he  cried. 

The  maiden  laughed,  as  youth  will  laugh 
At  all  its  fears  gone  by  ; 


C20 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


"He    does    not    know,"    she    whispered 

low, 
"A  little  witch  am  I." 

All  day  he  urged  his  weary  horse, 

And,  in  the  red  sundown, 
Drew  rein  before  a  friendly  door 

In  distant  Berwick  town. 

A  fellow-feeling  for  the  wronged 

The  Quaker  people  felt  ; 
And  safe  beside  their  kindly  hearths 

The  hunted  maiden  dwelt, 

Until  from  off  its  breast  the  land 

The  haunting  horror  threw, 
And  hatred,  born  of  ghastly  dreams, 

To  shame  and  pity  grew. 

Sad  were   the  year's  spring  morns,  and 
sad 

Its  golden  summer  day, 
But  blithe  and  glad  its  withered  fields, 

And  skies  of  ashen  gray  ; 

For  spell  and  charm  had  power  no  more, 
The  spectres  ceased  to  roam, 

And  scattered  households  knelt  again 
Around  the  hearths  of  home. 

And  when  once  more  by  Beaver  Dam 

The  meadow-lark  outsang, 
And  ouce  again  on  all  the  hills 

The  early  violets  sprang, 

And  all  the  windy  pasture  slopes 

Lay  green  within  the  arms 
Of  creeks  that  bore  the  salted  sea 

To  pleasant  inland  farms, 

The  smith  filed  off  the  chains  he  forged, 
The  jail-bolts  backward  fell  ; 

And  youth  and  hoary  age  came  forth 
Like  souls  escaped  from  hell. 


KING  SOLOMON  AND  THE  ANTS 

OUT  from  Jerusalem 

The  king  rode  with  his  great 
War  chiefs  and  lords  of  state, 

And  Sheba's  queen  with  them  ; 

Comely,  but  black  withal, 
To  whom,  perchance,  belongs 


That  wondrous  Song  of  songs, 
Sensuous  and  mystical, 

Whereto  devout  souls  turn 

In  fond,  ecstatic  dream, 

And  through  its  earth-born  theme 
The  Love  of  loves  discern. 

Proud  in  the  Syrian  sun, 
In  gold  and  purple  sheen, 
The  dusky  Ethiop  queen 

Smiled  on  King  Solomon. 

Wisest  of  men,  he  knew 
The  languages  of  ail 
The  creatures  great  or  small 

That  trod  the  earth  or  flew. 

Across  an  ant-hill  led 

The  king's  path,  and  he  heard 
Its  small  folk,  and  their  word 

He  thus  interpreted  : 

"  Here  comes  the  king  men  greet 
As  wise  and  good  and  just, 
To  crush  us  in  the  dust 
Under  his  heedless  feet." 

The  great  king  bowed  his  head, 
And  saw  the  wide  surprise 
Of  the  Queen  of  Sheba's  eyes 

As  he  told  her  what  they  said. 

"  0  king  !  "  she  whispered  sweet, 
"  Too  happy  fate  have  they 
Who  perish  in  thy  way 
Beneath  thy  gracious  feet ! 

"  Thou  of  the  God-lent  crown, 
Shall  these  vile  creatures  dare 
Murmur  against  thee  where 
The  knees  of  kings  kneel  down  ?  " 

"  Nay,"  Solomon  replied, 

"  The  wise  and  strong  should  seek 
The  welfare  of  the  weak," 
And  turned  his  horse  aside. 

His  train,  with  quick  alarm, 

Curved  with  their  leader  round 
The  ant-hill's  peopled  mound, 

And  left  it  free  from  harm. 

The  jewelled  head  bent  low  ; 

"  O  king  !  ".  she  said,  "  henceforth 


IN  THE  «OLD  SOUTH" 


121 


The  secret  of  thy  worth 
And  wisdom  well  I  know. 

"  Happy  must  be  the  State 
Whose  ruler  heedeth  more 
The  murmurs  of  the  poor 
Than  flatteries  of  the  great." 


IN    THE   "OLD    SOUTH" 

On  the  8th  of  July,  1677,  Margaret  Brew- 
Ster  with  four  other  Friends  went  into  the  South 
Church  in  time  of  meeting-,  "  in  sackcloth,  with 
ashes  upon  her  head,  barefoot,  and  her  face 
blackened,"  and  delivered  "  a  warning  from 
the  great  God  of  Heaven  and  Earth  to  the 
Rulers  and  Magistrates  of  Boston  "  For  the 
offence  she  was  sentenced  to  be  "  whipped  at 
a  cart's  tail  up  and  down  the  Town,  with 
twenty  lashes." 

SHE   came   and   stood  in   the    Old   South 
Church, 

A  wonder  and  a  sign, 
With  a  look  the  old-time  sibyls  wore, 

Half-crazed  and  half-divine. 

3ave    the    mournful    sackcloth   about    her 

wound, 

Unclothed  as  the  primal  mother, 
With  limbs  that  trembled  and  eyes  that 

blazed 
With  a  fire  she  dare  not  smother. 

Loose  on  her  shoulders  fell  her  hair, 

With  sprinkled  ashes  gray  ; 
She  stood  in  the  broad  aisle  strange  and 
weird 

As  a  soul  at  the  judgment  day. 

And   the  minister  paused  in  his  sermon's 

midst, 

And  the  people  held  their  breath, 
For  these    were    the   words    the    maiden 

spoke 
Through  lips  as  the  lips  of  death  : 

"  Thus  saith  the  Lord,  with  equal  feet 
All  men  my  courts  shall  tread, 

And  priest  and  ruler  no  more  shall  eat 
My  people  up  like  bread  ! 

"  Repent  !    repent  !    ere    the   Lord    shall 

speak 
In  thunder  and  breaking  seals  ! 


Let  all  souls  worship  Him  in  the  way 
His  light  within  reveals." 

She  shook  the  dust  from  her  naked  feet, 
And  her  sackcloth  closer  drew, 

And   into   the  porch   of   the   awe -hushed 

church 
She  passed  like  a  ghost  from  view. 

They  whipped  her  away  at  the  tail  o'  the 

cart 

Through  half  the  streets  of  the  town, 
But  the   words  she   uttered   that  day  nor 

fire 
Could  burn  nor  water  drown. 

And  now  the  aisles  of  the  ancient  church 

By  equal  feet  are  trod, 
And  the  bell  that  swings  in  its  belfry  rings 

Freedom  to  worship  God  ! 

And  now  whenever  a  wrong  is  done 

It  thrills  the  conscious  walls  ; 
The  stone  from  the  basement  cries  aloud 

And  the  beam  from  the  timber  calls. 

There  are  steeple-houses  on  every  hand, 
And  pulpits  that  bless  and  ban, 

And  the  Lord  will  not  grudge  the  single 

church 
That  is  set  apart  for  man. 

For  in  two  commandments  are  all  the  law 
And  the  prophets  under  the  sun, 

And  the  first  is  last  and  the  last  is  first, 
And  the  twain  are  verily  one. 

So  long  as  Boston  shall  Boston  be, 
And  her  bay-tides  rise  and  fall, 

Shall    freedom    stand   in   the    Old    South 

Church 
And  plead  for  the  rights  of  all  ! 


THE    HENCHMAN 

[Written  at  the  request  of  a  young  lady, 
who  said  to  the  poet :  "  Mr.  Whittier,  you 
never  wrote  a  love  song.  I  do  not  believe  you 
can  write  one.  I  wish  you  would  try  to  write 
one  for  me  to  sing."  In  sending  the  poem 
afterward  to  the  editor  of  The  Independem, 
Whittier  wrote :  "I  send,  in  compliance  with 
the  wish  of  Mr.  Bowen  and  thyself,  a  ballad 
upon  which,  though  not  long,  I  have  bestowed 
a  good  deal  of  labor.  It  is  not  exactly  a 


122 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


Quakerly  piece,  nor  is  it  didactic,  and  it  has 
no  moral  that  I  know  of.  But  it  is,  I  think, 
natural,  simple,  and  not  unpoetical."J 

MY  lady  walks  her  morning  round, 
My  lady's  page  her  fleet  greyhound, 
My  lady's  hair  the  fond  winds  stir, 
And  all  the  birds  make  songs  for  her. 

Her  thrushes  sing  in  Rathburn  bowers, 
And  Rathburn  side  is  gay  with  flowers  ; 
But  ne'er  like  hers,  in  flower  or  bird, 
Was  beauty  seen  or  music  heard. 

The  distance  of  the  stars  is  hers  ; 
The  least  of  all  her  worshippers, 
The  dust  beneath  her  dainty  heel, 
She  knows  not  that  I  see  or  feel. 

Oh,  proud  and  calm  !  —  she  cannot  know 
Where'er  she  goes  with  her  I  go  ; 
Oh,  cold  and  fair  !  —  she  cannot  guess 
I  kneel  to  share  her  hound's  caress  ! 

Gay  knights  beside  her  hunt  and  hawk, 
I  rob  their  ears  of  her  sweet  talk  ; 
Her  suitors  come  from  east  and  west, 
I  steal  her  smiles  from  every  guest. 

Unheard  of  her,  in  loving  words, 
I  greet  her  with  the  song  of  birds  ; 
I  reach  her  with  her  green  -  armed    bow 
ers, 
I  kiss  her  with  the  lips  of  flowers. 

The  hound  and  I  are  on  her  trail, 
The  wind  and  I  uplift  her  veil  ; 
As  if  the  calm,  cold  moon  she  were, 
And  I  the  tide,  I  follow  her. 

As  unrebuked  as  they,  I  share 

The  license  of  the  sun  and  air, 

And  in  a  common  homage  hide 

My  worship  from  her  scorn  and  pride. 

World-wide  apart,  and  yet  so  near, 
I  breathe  her  charmed  atmosphere, 
Wherein  to  her  my  service  brings 
The  reverence  due  to  holy  things. 

Her  maiden  pride,  her  haughty  name, 
My  dumb  devotion  shall  not  shame  ; 
The  love  that  no  return  doth  crave 
To  knightly  levels  lifts  the  slave. 


No  lance  have  I,  in  joust  or  fight, 
To  splinter  in  my  lady's  sight  ; 
But,  at  her  feet,  how  blest  were  I 
For  any  need  of  hers  to  die  ! 


THE  DEAD  FEAST  OF  THE 
KOL-FOLK 

E.  B.  Tylor  in  his  Primitive  Culture,  chapter 
xii.,  gives  an  account  of  the  reverence  paid  the 
dead  by  the  Kol  tribes  of  Chota  Nagpur,  Assam. 
"  When  a  Ho  or  Munda,"  he  says,  "has  been 
burned  on  the  funeral  pile,  collected  morsels 
of  his  bones  are  carried  in  procession  with  a 
solemn,  ghostly,  sliding  step,  keeping  time  to 
the  deep-sounding  drum,  and  when  the  old 
woman  who  carries  the  bones  on  her  bamboo 
tray  lowers  it  from  time  to  time,  then  girls 
who  carry  pitchers  and  brass  vessels  mournfully 
reverse  them  to  show  that  they  are  empty  ;  thus 
the  remains  are  taken  to  visit  every  house  in  the 
village,  and  every  dwelling  of  a  friend  or  rela 
tive  for  miles,  and  the  inmates  come  out  to 
mourn  and  praise  the  goodness  of  the  departed  ; 
the  bones  are  carried  to  all  the  dead  man's 
favorite  haunts,  to  the  fields  he  cultivated ,  to 
the  grove  he  planted,  to  the  threshing-floor 
where  he  worked,  to  the  village  dance-room 
where  he  made  merry.  At  last  they  are  taken 
to  the  grave,  and  buried  in  an  earthen  vase 
upon  a  store  of  food,  covered  with  one  of  those 
huge  stone  slabs  which  European  visitors  won 
der  at  in  the  districts  of  the  aborigines  of 
India."  In  the  Journal  of  the  Asiatic  Society, 
Bengal,  vol.  ix.  p.  795,  is  a  Ho  dirge. 

WE  have  opened  the  door, 

Once,  twice,  thrice  ! 
We  have  swept  the  floor, 

We  have  boiled  the  rice. 
Come  hither,  come  hither  ! 
Come  from  the  far  lands, 
Come  from  the  star  lands, 

Come  as  before  ! 
We  lived  long  together, 
We  loved  one  another  ; 

Come  back  to  our  life. 
Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and  brother, 

Child,  husband,  and  wife, 
For  you  we  are  sighing. 
Come  take  your  old  places, 
Come  look  in  our  faces, 
The  dead  on  the  dying, 
Come  home  ! 


THE  KHAN'S   DEVIL 


123 


We  have  opened  the  door, 

Once,  twice,  thrice  ! 
We  have  kindled  the  coals, 

And  we  boil  the  rice 
For  the  feast  of  souls. 

Come  hither,  come  hither ! 
Think  not  we  fear  you, 
Whose  hearts  are  so  near  you. 
Come  tenderly  thought  on, 
Come  all  unforgotten, 
Come  from  the  shadow-lands, 
From  the  dim  meadow-lands 
Where  the  pale  grasses  bend 

Low  to  our  sighing. 
Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and  brother, 
Come  husband  and  friend, 

The  dead  to  the  dying, 
Come  home  ! 

We  have  opened  the  door 

You  entered  so  oft  ; 
For  the  feast  of  souls 
We  have  kindled  the  coals, 

And  we  boil  the  rice  soft. 
Come  you  who  are  dearest 
To  us  who  are  nearest, 
Come  hither,  come  hither, 
From  out  the  wild  weather  ; 
The  storm  clouds  are  flying, 
The  peepul  is  sighing  ; 

Come  in  from  the  rain. 
Come  father,  come  mother, 
Come  sister  and  brother, 
Come  husband  and  lover, 
Beneath  our  roof-cover. 

Look  on  us  again, 

The  dead  on  the  dying, 

Come  home  ! 

We  have  opened  the  door  ! 
For  the  feast  of  souls 
We  have  kindled  the  coals 
We  may  kindle  no  more  ! 
Snake,  fever,  and  famine, 
The  curse  of  the  Brahmin, 

The  sun  and  the  dew, 
They  burn  us,  they  bite  us, 
They  waste  us  and  smite  us  ; 

Our  days  are  but  few  ! 
In  strange  lands  far  yonder 
To  wonder  and  wander 

We  hasten  to  you. 
List  then  to  our  sighing, 

While  yet  we  are  here  : 


Nor  seeing  nor  hearing, 
We  wait  without  fearing 
To  feel  you  draw  near. 
O  dead,  to  the  dying 
Couie  home  ! 


THE   KHAN'S   DEVIL 

THE  Khan  came  from  Bokhara  town 
To  Hamza,  santon  of  renown. 

"  My  head  is  sick,  my  hands  are  weak  ; 
Thy  help,  O  holy  man,  I  seek." 

In  silence  marking  for  a  space 

The  Khan's  red  eyes  and  purple  face, 

Thick  voice,  and  loose,  uncertain  tread, 
"  Thou  hast  a  devil !  "  Hamza  said. 

"  Allah  forbid  !  "  exclaimed  the  Khan. 
"  Rid  me  of  him  at  once,  O  man  ! " 

"  Nay,"  Hamza  said,  "no  spell  of  mine 
Can  slay  that  cursed  thing  of  thine. 

"  Leave  feast  and  wine,  go  forth  and  drink 
Water  of  healing  on  the  brink 

"  Where    clear   and    cold    from   mountain 

snows, 
The  Nahr  el  Zeben  downward  flows. 

"  Six  moons  remain,  then  come  to  me  ; 
May  Allah's  pity  go  with  thee  ! " 

Awestruck,  from  feast  and  wine  the  Khan 
Went  forth  where  Nahr  el  Zeben  ran. 

Roots  were  his  food,  the  desert  dust 
His  bed,  the  water  quenched  his  thirst  ; 

And  when  the  sixth  moon's  scimitar 
Curved  sharp  above  the  evening  star, 

He  sought  again  the  santon's  door, 
Not  weak  and  trembling  as  before, 

But  strong  of  limb  and  clear  of  brain  ; 
"  Behold,"  he  said,  «  the  fiend  is  slain." 

"Nay,"    Hamza   answered,    "starved    and 

drowned. 
The  curst  one  lies  in  death-like  s wound. 


124 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


"  But  evil  breaks  the  strongest  gyves, 
And  jins  like  him  have  charmed  lives. 

"  One  beaker  of  the  juice  of  grape 
May  call  him  up  in  living  shape. 

"  When  the  red  wine  of  Badakshan 
Sparkles  for  thee,  beware,  O  Khan  ! 

u  With  water  quench  the  fire  within, 
And  drown  each  day  thy  devilkin  ! " 

Thenceforth  the  great  Khan  shunned  the  cup 
As  Shitan's  own,  though  ottered  up, 

With  laughing  eyes  and  jewelled  hands, 
By  Yarkand's  maids  and  oamarcand's. 

And,  in  the  lofty  vestibule 

Of  the  medress  of  Kaush  Kodul, 

The  students  of  the  holy  law 
A  golden-lettered  tablet  saw> 

With  these  words,  by  a  cunning  hand, 
Graved  on  it  at  the  Khan's  command  : 

"In  Allah's  name,  to  him  who  hath 
A  devil,  Khan  el  Hamed  saith, 

"  Wisely  our  Prophet  cursed  the  vine  : 
The  fiend  that  loves  the  breath  of  wine 

"  No  prayer  can  slay,  no  marabout 
Nor  Meccan  dervis  can  drive  out. 

"I,  Khan  el  Hamed,  know  the  charm 
That  robs  him  of  his  power  to  harm. 

"Drown  him,  O  Islam's  child  !  the  spell 
To  save  thee  lies  in  tank  and  well  ! " 


THE    KING'S    MISSIVE 
1661 

This  ballad,  originally  written  for  The  Memo 
rial  History  of  Boston,  describes,  with  pardon 
able  poetic  license,  a  memorable  incident  in 
the  annals  of  the  city.  The  interview  between 
Shattuck  and  the  Governor  took  place,  I  have 
since  learned,  in  the  residence  of  the  latter,  and 
not  in  the  Council  Chamber.  The  publication 
of  the  ballad  led  to  some  discussion  as  to  the 
historical  truthfulness  of  the  picture,  but  I  have 
seen  no  reason  to  rub  out  any  of  the  figures  or 
alter  the  lines  and  colors. 


UNDER  the  great  hill  sloping  bare 

To  cove  and  meadow  and  Common  lot, 
In  his  council  chamber  and  oaken  chair, 
Sat  the  worshipful  Governor  Endicott. 
A  grave,  strong  man,  who  knew  no  peer 
In  the  pilgrim  land,  where  he  ruled  in  feai 
Of  God,  not  man,  and  for  good  or  ill 
Held  bis  trust  with  an  iron  will. 

He  had  shorn  with  his  sword  the  cross  from 
out 

The  flag,  and  cloven  the  May-pole  down, 
Harried  the  heathen  round  about, 

And  whipped  the  Quakers  from  town  to 

town. 

Earnest  and  honest,  a  man  at  need 
To  burn  like  a  torch  for  his  own  harsh  creed. 
He  kept  with  the  flaming  brand  of  his  zeal 
The  gate  of  the  holy  common  weal. 

His  brow  was  clouded,  his  eye  was  stern, 
With   a   look   of    mingled    sorrow   and 

wrath  ; 
"  Woe  's  me  !  "  he  murmured  :  "  at  every 

turn 

The  pestilent  Quakers  are  in  my  path  ! 
Some  we  have  scourged,  and  banished  some, 
Some  hanged,  more  doomed,  and  still  they 

come, 

Fast  as  the  tide  of  yon  bay  sets  in, 
Sowing  their  heresy's  seed  of  sin. 

"  Did  we  count  on  this  ?     Did  we  leave  be 
hind 
The  graves  of  our  kin,  the  comfort  and 

ease 
Of  our  English  hearths  and  homes,  to  find 

Troublers  of  Israel  such  as  these  ? 
Shall  I  spare  ?     Shall  I  pity  them  ?     God 

forbid  ! 

I  will  do  as  the  prophet  to  Agag  did  : 
They  come  to  poison  the  wells  of  the  Word, 
I  will  hew  them  in  pieces  before  the  Lord  !  " 

The  door  swung  open,  and  Rawson  the  clerk 

Entered,  and  whispered  under  breath, 
"  There  waits  below  for  the  hangman's  work 

A  fellow  banished  on  pain  of  death  — 
Shattuck,  of  Salem,  unhealed  of  the  whip, 
Brought  over  in  Master  Goldsmith's  ship 
At  anchor  here  in  a  Christian  port, 
With  freight  of  the  devil  and  all  his  sort  !r 

Twice  and  thrice  on  the  chamber  floor 
Striding  fiercely  from  wall  to 


THE   KING'S   MISSIVE 


"  The  Lord  do  so  to  me  and  more," 

The  Governor  cried,  "  if  I  hang  not  all ! 
Bring  hither  the  Quaker."     Calm,  sedate, 
With  the  look  of  a  man  at  ease  with  fate, 
Into  that  presence  grim  and  dread 
Came  Samuel  Shattuck,  with  hat  on  head. 

« Off  with  the   knave's  hat  ! "     An  angry 

hand 
Smote  down  the  offence  ;  but  the  wearer 

said, 

With  a  quiet  smile,  "By  the  king's  com 
mand 

I  bear  his  message  and  stand  in  his  stead." 
In  the  Governor's  hand  a  missive  he  laid 
With  the  royal  arms  on  its  seal  displayed, 
And  the   proud   man   spake  as    he    gazed 

thereat, 
Uncovering,  "  Give  Mr.  Shattuck  his  hat." 

He  turned  to  the  Quaker,  bowing  low,  — 
"  The   king   comrnandeth   your    friends' 
release  ; 

Doubt  not  he  shall  be  obeyed,  although 
To  his  subjects'  sorrow  and  sin's  increase. 

What  he  here  enjoineth,  John  Endicott, 

His  loyal  servant,  questioneth  not. 

You  are  free  !     God   grant  the  spirit  you 
own 

May  take  you  from  us  to  parts  unknown." 

So  the  door  of  the  jail  was  open  cast, 

And,  like  Daniel,  out  of  the  lion's  den 
Tender  youth  and  girlhood  passed, 

Writh  age-bowed  women  and  gray-locked 

men. 

And  the  voice  of  one  appointed  to  die 
Was  lifted  in  praise  and  thanks  on  high, 
And  the  little  maid  from  New  Netherlands 
Kissed,  in  her  joy,  the  doomed  man's  hands. 

And  one,  whose  call  was  to  minister 

To  the  souls  in  prison,  beside  him  went, 
An  ancient  woman,  bearing  with  her 

The  linen  shroud  for  his  burial  meant. 
For  she,  not  counting  her  own  life  dear, 
In  the  strength  of  a  love  that  cast  out  fear, 
Had  watched  and  served  where  her  brethren 

died, 
Like  those  who  waited  the  cross  beside. 

One  moment  they  paused  on  their  way  to 

look 

On  the  martyr  graves  by  the  Common 
side, 


And  much  scourged  Wharton  of  Salem  took 

His  burden  of  prophecy  up  and  cried  : 
"  Rest,  souls  of  the  valiant  !     Not  in  vain 
Have  ye  borne  the  Master's  cross  of  pain  ; 
Ye   have  fought  the   fight,  ye  are  victors 

crowned, 
With    a    fourfold    chain   ye    have    Satan 

bound  ! " 

The  autumn  haze  lay  soft  and  still 

On  wood  and  meadow  and  upland  farms  ; 
On  the  brow  of  Snow  Hill  the  great  wind 
mill 

Slowly  and  lazily  swung  its  arms  ; 
Broad  in  the  sunshine  stretched  away, 
With  its  capes  and  islands,  the  turquoise 

bay; 

And  over  water  and  dusk  of  pines 
Blue  hills  lifted  their  faint  outlines. 

The  topaz  leaves  of  the  walnut  glowed, 
The  sumach  added  its  crimson  fleck, 
And  double  in  air  and  water  showed 

The  tinted  maples  along  the  Neck  ; 
Through  frost  flower  clusters  of  pale  star- 
mist, 

And  gentian  fringes  of  amethyst, 
And  royal  plumes  of  golden-rod, 
The  grazing  cattle  on  Gentry  trod. 

But  as  they  who  see  not,  the  Quakers  saw 
The  world  about  them  ;  they  only  thought 
With  deep  thanksgiving  and  pious  awe 
On    the    great    deliverance     God     had 

wrought. 

Through  lane  and  alley  the  gazing  town 
Noisily  followed  them  up  and  down  ; 
Some  with  scoffing  and  brutal  jeer, 
Some  with  pity  and  words  of  cheer. 

One  brave  voice  rose  above  the  din. 

Upsall,  gray  with  his  length  of  days, 
Cried  from  the  door  of  his  Red  Lion  Inn  : 

"  Men  of  Boston,  give  God  the  praise  ! 
No  more  shall  innocent  blood  call  down 
The  bolts  of  wrath  on  your  guilty  town. 
The  freedom  of  worship,  dear  to  you, 
Is  dear  to  all,  and  to  all  is  due. 

"  I  see  the  vision  of  days  to  come, 
When  your  beautiful  City  of  the  Bay 

Shall  be  Christian  liberty's  chosen  home, 
And    none   shall    his   neighbor's    rights 
gainsay. 

The  varying  notes  of  worship  shall  blend 


126 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


And  as  one  great  prayer  to  God  ascend, 
And  hands  of  mutual  charity  raise 
Walls  of  salvation  and  gates  of  praise." 

So    passed    the    Quakers    through    Boston 
town, 

Whose  painful  ministers  sighed  to  see 
The  walls  of  their  sheep-fold  falling  down, 

And  wolves  of  heresy  prowling  free. 
But   the  years  went   on,  and    brought   no 

wrong  ; 

With  milder  counsels  the  State  grew  strong, 
As  outward  Letter  and  inward  Light 
Kept  the  balance  of  truth  aright. 

The  Puritan  spirit  perishing  not, 

To  Concord's  yeomen  the  signal  sent, 
And  spake  in  the  voice  of  the  cannon-shot 
That  severed  the  chains  of  a  continent. 
With  its  gentler  mission  of  peace  and  good 
will 

The  thought  of  the  Quaker  is  living  still, 
And  the  freedom  of  soul  he  prophesied 
Is  gospel  and  law  where  the  martyrs  died. 


VALUATION 

THE  old   Squire  said,  as  he  stood  by  his 
gate, 

And  his  neighbor,  the  Deacon,  went  by, 
"  In  spite  of  my  bank  stock  and  real  estate, 

You  are  better  off,  Deacon,  than  I. 

"  We  're   both  growing  old,  and  the  end  's 

drawing  near, 

You  have  less  of  this  world  to  resign, 
But  in  Heaven's  appraisal  your  assets,  I 

fear, 
Will  reckon  up  greater  than  mine. 

"  They  say  I  am  rich,  but  I  'm  feeling  so 

poor, 

I  wish  I  could  swap  with  you  even  : 
The  pounds  I  have  lived  for  and  lafd  up  in 

store 

For   the    shillings   and    pence  you  have 
given." 

{<  Well,    Squire,"   said    the    Deacon,    with 

shrewd  common  sense, 
While  his  eye  had  a  twinkle  of  fun, 
*  Let  your  pounds  take  the  way  of  my  shil 
lings  and  pence, 
And  the  thing  can  be  easily  done  !  " 


RABBI    ISHMAEL 

"Rabbi  Ishmael  Ben  Elisha  said,  Once  I 
entered  into  the  Holy  of  Holies  [as  High  Priest] 
to  burn  incense,  when  I  saw  Aktriel  [the  Di 
vine  Crown]  Jah,  Lord  of  Hosts,  sitting-  upon 
a  throne,  high  and  lifted  up,  who  said  unto 
me,  '  Ishmael,  my  son,  bless  me.'  I  answered, 
''May  it  please  Thee  to  make  Thy  compassion  pre 
vail  over  Thine  anger  ;  may  it  be  revealed  above 
Thy  other  attributes;  mayest  Thou  deal  with 
Thy  children  according  to  it,  and  not  according 
to  the  strict  measure  of  judgment.'  It  seemed  to 
me  that  He  bowed  His  head,  as  though  to  an 
swer  Amen  to  my  blessing." — Talmud  (Bera- 
cho'ii,  i.  f.  6  b.). 

THE  Rabbi  Ishmael.  with  the  woe  and  sin 
Of  the  world  heavy  upon  him,  entering  in 
The  Holy  of  Holies,  saw  an  awful  Face 
With  terrible  splendor  rilling  all  the  place. 
"  O  Ishmael  Ben  Elisha  !  "  said  a  voice, 
"  What  seekest  thou  ?     What  blessing  iy 

thy  choice  ?  " 

And,  knowing  that  he  stood  before  the  Lord. 
Within  the  shadow  of  the  cherubim, 
Wide-winged  between  the  blinding    light 

and  him, 

He  bowed  himself,  and  uttered  not  a  word> 
But  in  the  silence  of  his  soul  was  prayer  : 
"  O  Thou  Eternal  !    I  am  one  of  all, 
And  nothing  ask  that  others  may  not  share. 
Thou    art    almighty  ;     we    are    weak   and 

small, 
And  yet   Thy    children  :    let  Thy   mercy 

spare  !  " 
Trembling,  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  in  the 

place 

Of  the  insufferable  glory,  lo  !  a  face 
Of  more  than  mortal  tenderness,  that  bent 
Graciously  down  in  token  of  assent, 
And,  smiling,  vanished  !    With  strange  joy 

elate, 
The  wondering  Rabbi  sought  the  temple's 

gate. 
Radiant   as   Moses    from   the    Mount,   he 

stood 

And  cried  aloud  unto  the  multitude  : 
"O  Israel,  hear!     The  Lord  our   God  is 

good  ! 
Mine   eyes    have    seen  His  glory  and  His 

grace  ; 
Beyond  His  judgments  shall  His  love  en- 

dure  ; 
The  mercy  of  the  All  Merciful  is  sure  !  " 


THE   BAY  OF   SEVEN    ISLANDS 


127 


THE  ROCK-TOMB  OF  BRADORE 

H.  Y.  Hind,  in  Explorations  in  the  Interior  of 
the  Labrador  Peninsula  (ii.  166),  mentions  the 
finding  of  a  rock  tomb  near  the  little  fishing1 
port  of  Bradore,  with  the  inscription  upon  it 
which  is  given  in  the  poem. 

A  DREAR  and  desolate  shore  ! 
Where  no  tree  unfolds  its  leaves, 
And  never  the  spring  wind  weaves 
Green  grass  for  the  hunter's  tread  ; 
A  land  forsaken  and  dead, 
Where  the  ghostly  icebergs  go 
And  come  with  the  ebb  and  flow 

Of  the  waters  of  Bradore  ! 

A  wanderer,  from  a  land 

By  summer  breezes  fanned, 

Looked  round  him,  awed,  subdued, 

By  the  dreadful  solitude, 

Hearing  alone  the  cry 

Of  sea-birds  clanging  by, 

The  crash  and  grind  of  the  floe, 

Wail  of  wind  and  wash  of  tide. 

"  O  wretched  land  !  "  he  cried, 

"  Land  of  all  lands  the  worst, 

God  forsaken  and  curst  ! 

Thy  gates  of  rock  should  show 

The  words  the  Tuscan  seer 
Read  in  the  Realm  of  Woe  : 

Hope  entereth  not  here  I  " 

Lo  !  at  his  feet  there  stood 
A  block  of  smooth  larch  wood, 
Waif  of  some  wandering  wave, 
Beside  a  rock-closed  cave 
By  Nature  fashioned  for  a  grave  ; 
Safe  from  the  ravening  bear 
And  fierce  fowl  of  the  air, 
Wherein  to  rest  was  laid 
A  twenty  summers'  maid, 
Whose  blood  had  equal  share 
Of  the  lands  of  vine  and  snow, 
Half  French,  half  Eskimo. 
In  letters  nneffaced, 
Upon  the  block  were  traced 
The  grief  and  hope  of  man, 
And  thus  the  legend  ran  : 

"  We  loved  her! 
Words  cannot  tell  how  well! 

We  loved  her  ! 

God  loved  her! 
And  called  her  home  to  peace  and  rest. 

We  love  her!" 


The  stranger  paused  and  read. 

"  O  winter  land  !  "  he  said, 

"  Thy  right  to  be  I  own  ; 

God  leaves  thee  not  alone. 

And  if  thy  fierce  winds  blow 

Over  drear  wastes  of  rock  and  snow, 

And  at  thy  iron  gates 

The  ghostly  iceberg  waits, 

Thy  homes  and  hearts  are  dear. 
Thy  sorrow  o'er  thy  sacred  dust 
Is  sanctified  by  hope  and  trust ; 

God's  love  and  man's  are  here. 
And  love  where'er  it  goes 
Makes  its  own  atmosphere  ; 
Its  flowers  of  Paradise 
Take  root  in  the  eternal  ice, 

And  bloom  through  Polar  snows  !  " 


THE    BAY    OF    SEVEN    ISLANDS 

The  volume  in  which  The  Bay  of  Seven  Is 
lands  was  published  was  dedicated  to  the  late 
Edwin  Percy  Whipple,  to  whom  more  than  to 
any  other  person  I  was  indebted  for  public  re 
cognition  as  one  worthy  of  a  place  in  American 
literature,  at  a  time  when  it  required  a  great 
degree  of  courage  to  urge  such  a  claim  for 
a  proscribed  abolitionist.  Although  younger 
than  I,  he  had  gained  the  reputation  of  a  bril 
liant  essayist,  and  was  regarded  as  the  highest 
American  authority  in  criticism.  His  wit  and 
wisdom  enlivened  a  small  literary  circle  of 
young  men,  including  Thomas  IStarr  King,  the 
eloquent  preacher,  and  Daniel  N.  Haskell,  of 
the  Daily  Transcript,  who  gathered  about  our 
common  friend  James  T.  Fields  at  the  Old 
Corner  Bookstore.  The  poem  which  gave  title 
to  the  volume  I  inscribed  to  my  friend  and 
neighbor,  Harriet  Prescott  J-pofford,  whose 
poems  have  lent  a  new  interest  to  our  beauti 
ful  river- valley. 

FROM  the  green  Amesbury  hill  which  bears 

the  name 

Of  that  half  mythic  ancestor  of  mine 
Who  trod  its  slopes  two  hundred  years  ago, 
Down  the  long  valley  of  the  Merrimac, 
Midway  between  me  and  the  river's  mouth, 
I  see  thy  home,  set  like  an  eagle's  nest 
Among  Deer  Island's  immemorial  pines, 
Crowning   the   crag   on  which   the   sunset 

breaks 

Its  last  red  arrow.     Many  a  tale  and  song, 
Which  thou   hast   told   or  sung,  I  call  to 

mind. 
Softening  with  silvery  mist  the  woods  and 

bills, 


128 


NARRATIVE   AND  LEGENDARY   POEMS 


The  out-thrust  headlands  and  inreaching 
bays 

Of  our  northeastern  coast-line,  trending 
where 

The  Gulf,  midsummer,  feels  the  chill  block 
ade 

Of  icebergs  stranded  at  its  northern  gate. 

To  thee  the  echoes  of  the  Island  Sound 
Answer  not  vainly,  nor  in  vain  the  moan 
Of  the  South  Breaker  prophesying  storm. 
And  thou  hast  listened,  like  myself,  to  men 
Sea-periled  oft  where  Anticosti  lies 
Like  a  fell  spider  in  its  web  of  fog, 
Or  where  the  Grand  Bank  shallows  with 

the  wrecks 
Of   sunken   fishers,  and  to  whom  strange 

isles 
And  frost-rimmed  bays  and  trading  stations 

seem 

Familiar  as  Great  Neck  and  Kettle  Cove, 
Nubble   and  Boon,  the  common  names  of 

home. 

So  let  ni(3  offer  thee  this  lay  of  mine, 
Simple  and  homely,  lacking  much  thy  play 
Of  color  and  of  fancy.     If  its  theme 
And  treatment  seem  to  thee  befitting  youth 
Rather  than  age,  let  this  be  my  excuse  : 
It  has  beguiled  some  heavy  hours  and  called 
Some  pleasant  memories  up  ;   and,  better 

still, 

Occasion  lent  me  for  a  kindly  word 
To  one  who  is  my  neighbor  and  my  friend. 


The  skipper  sailed  out  of  the  harbor  mouth, 
Leaving  the  apple-bloom  of  the  South 
For  the  ice  of  the  Eastern  seas, 
In  his  fishing  schooner  Breeze. 

Handsome  and  brave  and  young  was  he, 
And  the  maids  of  Newbury  sighed  to  see 

His  lessening  white  sail  fall 

Under  the  sea's  blue  wall. 

Through  the  Northern  Gulf  and  the  misty 

screen 
Of  the  isles  of  Mingan  and  Madeleine, 

St.  Paul's  and  Blanc  Sablon, 

The  little  Breeze  sailed  on, 

Backward  and  forward,  along  the  shore 
Of  lorn  and  desolate  Labrador, 

And  found  at  last  her  way 

To  the  Seven  Islands  Bay. 


The  little  hamlet,  nestling  below 
Great  hills  white  with  lingering  snow, 
With  its  tin-roofed  chapel  stood 
Half  hid  in  the  dwarf  spruce  wood  ; 

Green-turfed,  flower-sown,  the  last  outposfi 
Of  summer  upon  the  dreary  coast, 

With  its  gardens  small  and  spare, 

Sad  in  the  frosty  air. 

Hard  by  where  the  skipper's  schooner  lay, 
A  fisherman's  cottage  looked  away 

Over  isle  and  bay,  and  behind 

On  mountains  dim-defined. 

And  there  twin  sisters,  fair  and  young, 
Laughed  with    their    stranger    guest,  and 
sung 

In  their  native  tongue  the  lays 

Of  the  old  Provencal  days. 

Alike  were  they,  save  the  faint  outline 
Of  a  scar  on  Suzette's  forehead  fine  ; 
And  both,  it  so  befell, 
Loved  the  heretic  stranger  well. 

Both  were  pleasant  to  look  upon, 

But  the  heart  of  tiie  skipper  clave  to  one  ; 

Though  less  by  his  eye  than  heart 

He  knew  the  twain  apart. 

Despite  of  alien  race  and  creed, 

Well  did  his  wooing  of  Marguerite  speed  ; 

And  the  mother's  wrath  was  vain 

As  the  sister's  jealous  pain. 

The  shrill-tongued  mistress  her  house  foi» 

bade, 
And  solemn  warning  was  sternly  said 

By  the  black-robed  priest,  whose  word 

As  law  the  hamlet  heard. 

But  half  by  voice  and  half  by  signs 
The  skipper  said,  "  A  warm  sun  shines 

On  the  green-banked  Merrimac  ; 

Wait,  watch,  till  I  come  back. 

"  And  when  you  see,  from  my  mast  head, 
The  signal  fly  of  a  kerchief  red, 

My  boat  on  the  shore  shall  wait; 

Come,  when  the  night  is  late." 

Ah  !  weighed  with  childhood's  haunts  and 

friends, 
And  all  that  the  home  sky  overbends, 


THE   BAY  OF   SEVEN    ISLANDS 


129 


Did  ever  young  love  fail 
To  turn  the  trembling  scale  ? 

Under  the  night,  on  the  wet  sea  sands, 
Slowly  unclasped  their  plighted  hands  : 
One  to  the  cottage  hearth, 
And  one  to  his  sailor's  berth. 

What  was  it  the  parting  lovers  heard  ? 

Nor  leaf,  nor  ripple,  nor  wing  of  bird, 
But  a  listener's  stealthy  tread 
On  the  rock-moss,  crisp  and  dead. 

He  weighed   his  anchor,  and   fished   once 
more 

By  the  black  coast-line  of  Labrador  ; 

And  by  love  and  the  north  wind  driven, 
Sailed  back  to  the  Islands  Seven. 

In  the  sunset's  glow  the  sisters  twain 
Saw  the  Breeze  come  sailing  in  again  ; 

Said  Suzette,  "  Mother  dear, 

The  heretic's  sail  is  here." 

"  Go,  Marguerite,  to  your  room,  and  hide  ; 

Your  door  shall  be  bolted  !  "  the  mother 

cried  : 

While  Suzette,  ill  at  ease, 
Watched  the  red  sign  of  the  Breeze. 

At  midnight,  down  to  the  waiting  skiff 
She  stole  in  the  shadow  of  the  cliff  ; 
And  out  of  the  Bay's  mouth  ran 
The  schooner  with  maid  and  man. 

And  all  night  long,  on  a  restless  bed, 

Her  prayers  to  the  Virgin  Marguerite  said  : 

And  thought  of  her  lover's  pain 

Waiting  for  her  in  vain. 

Did  he  pace  the  sands  ?     Did  he  pause  to 
hear 

The  sound  of  her  light  step  drawing  near  ? 
And,  as  the  slow  hours  passed, 
Would  he  doubt  her  faith  at  last  ? 

But  when  she  saw  through  the  misty  pane, 
The  morning  break  on  a  sea  of  rain, 
Could  even  her  love  avail 
To  follow  his  vanished  sail  ? 

Meantime  the  Breeze,  with  favoring  wind, 
Left  the  rugged  Moisic  hills  behind, 

And  heard  from  an  unseen  shore 

The  falls  of  Manitou  roar. 


On  the  morrow's  morn  in  the  thick,  gray 

weather 
They  sat  on  the  reeling  deck  together, 

Lover  and  counterfeit 

Of  hapless  Marguerite. 

With  a  lover's  hand,  from  her  forehead  fair 
He  smoothed  away  her  jet-black  hair, 

What  was  it  his  fond  eyes  met  ? 

The  scar  of  the  false  Suzette  ! 

Fiercely  he  shouted  :  "  Bear  away 
East  by  north  for  the  Seven  Isles  Bay  ! J* 
The  maiden  wept  and  prayed, 
But  the  ship  her  helm  obeyed. 

Once  more  the  Bay  of  the  Isles  they  found  : 
They  heard  the  bell  of  the  chapel  sound, 
And  the  chant  of  the  dying  sung 
In  the  harsh,  wild  Indian  tongue. 

A  feeling  of  mystery,  change,  and  awe 
Was  in  all  they  heard  and  all  they  saw  : 
Spell-bound  the  hamlet  lay 
In  the  hush  of  its  lonely  bay. 

And  when  they  came  to  the  cottage  door, 
The  mother  rose  up  from  her  weeping  sore, 

And  with  angry  gestures  met 

The  scared  look  of  Suzette. 

"  Here  is  your  daughter,"  the  skipper  said  ; 
"  Give  me  the  one  I  love  instead." 

But  the  woman  sternly  spake  ; 

"  Go,  see  if  the  dead  will  wake  !  " 

He  looked.    Her  sweet  face  still  and  white 
And  strange  in  the  noonday  taper  light, 

She  lay  on  her  little  bed, 

With  the  cross  at  her  feet  and  head. 

In  a  passion  of  grief  the  strong  man  bent 
Down  to  her  face,  and,  kissing  it,  went 

Back  to  the  waiting  Breeze, 

Back  to  the  mournful  seas. 

Never  again  to  the  Merrimac 

And  Newbury's  homes  that  bark  came  back 
Whether  her  fate  she  met 
On  the  shores  of  Carraquette5 

Miscou,  or  Tracadie,  who  can  say  ? 
But  even  yet  at  Seven  Isles  Bay 

Is  told  the  ghostly  tale 

Of  a  weird,  unspoken  sail, 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


In   the   pale}    sad   light   of   the   Northern 
day 

Seen  by  the  blanketed  Montagnais, 
Or  squaw,  in  her  small  kyack, 
Crossing  the  spectre's  track. 

On  the  deck  a  maiden  wrings  her  hands  ; 

Her    likeness    kneels    oil    the    gray    coast 

sands  ; 

One  in  her  wild  despair, 
And  one  in  the  trance  of  prayer. 

She  flits  before  no  earthly  blast, 

The  red  sign  fluttering  from  her  mast, 

Over  the  solemn  seas, 

The  ghost  of  the  schooner  Breeze  ! 


THE   WISHING   BRIDGE 

AMONG  the  legends  sung  or  said 

Along  our  rocky  shore, 
The  Wishing  Bridge  of  Marblehead 

May  well  be  sung  once  more. 

An  hundred  years  ago  (so  ran 

The  old-time  story)  all 
Good  wishes  said  above  its  span 

Would,  soon  or  late,  befall. 

If  pure  and  earnest,  never  failed 

The  prayers  of  man  or  maid 
For  him  who  on  the  deep  sea  sailed, 

For  her  at  home  who  stayed. 

Once  thither  came  two  girls  from  school, 

And  wished  in  childish  glee  : 
And  one  would  be  a  queen  and  rule, 

And  one  the  world  would  see. 

Time  passed  ;  with  change  of  hopes  and 
fears, 

And  in  the  self-same  place, 
Two  women,  gray  with  middle  years, 

Stood,  wondering,  face  to  face. 

With  wakened  memories,  as  they  met, 
They  queried  what  had  been  : 

"  A  poor  man's  wife  am  I,  and  yet," 
Said  one,  "  I  am  a  queen. 

"My  realm  a  little  homestead  is, 
Where,  lacking  crown  and  throne, 

I  rule  by  loving  services 
And  patient  toil  alone." 


The  other  said  :  "  The  great  world  lies 

Beyond  me  as  it  lay  ; 
O'er  love's  and  duty's  boundaries 

My  feet  may  never  stray. 

"  I  see  but  common  sights  of  home, 

Its  common  sounds  I  hear, 
My  widowed  mother's  sick-bed  room 

Sufficeth  for  my  sphere. 

"  I  read  to  her  some  pleasant  page 

Of  travel  far  and  wide, 
And  in  a  dreamy  pilgrimage 

We  wander  side  by  side. 

"  And  when  at  last  she  falls  asleep, 

My  book  becomes  to  me 
A  magic  glass  :  my  watch  I  keep, 

But  all  the  world  I  see. 

"  A  farm-wife  queen  your  place  you  fill, 

While  fancy's  privilege 
Is  mine  to  walk  the  earth  at  will, 

Thanks  to  the  Wishing  Bridge." 

"  Nay,  leave  the  legend  for  the  truth," 

The  other  cried,  "  and  say 
God  gives  the  wishes  of  our  youth, 

But  in  His  own  best  way  ! " 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM 
DOVER 

The  following-  is  a  copy  of  the  warrant  is 
sued  by  Major  Waldron,  of  Dover,  in  1662. 
The  Quakers,  as  was  their  wont,  prophesied 
against  him,  and  saw,  as  they  supposed,  the 
fulfilment  of  their  prophecy  when,  many  years 
after,  he  was  killed  by  the  Indians. 

To  the  constables  of  Dover,  Hampton,  Salisbury, 
Newbury,  Rowley,  Ipswich,  Wenham,  Lynn, 
Boston, Roxbury.Dedham,and  until  these  vaga 
bond  Quakers  arecarried  out  of  this  jurisdiction. 

Yon,  and  every  one  of  you,  are  required,  in 
the  Kind's  Majesty's  name,  to  take  these  vag 
abond  Quakers,  Anne  Colman,  Mary  Tomkins, 
and  Alice  Ambrose,  and  make  them  fast  to  the 
cart's  tail,  and  driving  the  cart  through  your 
several  towns,  to  whip  them  upon  their  naked 
backs  not  exceeding  ten  stripes  apiece  on  each 
of  them,  in  each  town  ;  and  so  to  convey  them 
from  constable  to  constable  till  they  are  out  of 
this  jurisdiction,  as  you  will  answer  it  at  your 
peril ;  and  this  shall  be  vour  warrant. 

RICHARD  WAIJJROK. 
Dated  at  Dover,  December  22,  1662. 


HOW  THE  WOMEN  WENT  FROM  DOVER 


This  warrant  was  executed  only  in  Dover  and 
Hampton.  At  Salisbury  the  constable  refused 
to  obey  it.  He  was  sustained  by  the  town's 
people,  who  were  under  the  influence  of  Major 
Robert  Pike,  the  leading-  man  in  the  lower  val 
ley  of  the  Meri-imac,  who  stood  far  in  advance 
of  his  time,  as  an  advocate  of  religious  freedom 
and  an  opponent  of  ecclesiastical  authority. 
He  had  the  moral  courage  to  address  an  able 
:md  manly  letter  to  the  court  at  Salem,  remon- 
sirating  against  the  witchcraft  trials. 

THE  tossing  spray  of  Cocheco's  fall 

Hardened  to  ice  on  its  rocky  wall, 

As  through  Dover  town  in  the  chill,  gray 

dawn, 
Three    women    passed,    at   the    cart  -  tail 

drawn  ! 

Bared  to  the  waist,  for  the  north  wind's  grip 
And  keener  sting  of  the  constable's  whip, 
The  blood  that  followed  each  hissing  blow 
Froze  as  it  sprinkled  the  winter  snow. 

Priest  and  ruler,  boy  and  maid 
Followed  the  dismal  cavalcade  ; 
And  from  door  and  window,  open  thrown, 
Looked  and  wondered  gaft'er  and  crone. 

"  God  is  our  witness,"  the  victims  cried, 
"  We  suffer  for  Him  who  for  all  men  died  ; 
The  wrong  ye  do  has  been  done  before, 
We  bear  the  stripes  that  the  Master  bore  ! 

"  And  thou,  O  Richard  Waldron,  for  whom 
We  hear  the  feet  of  a  coming  doom, 
On  thy  cruel  heart  and  thy  hand  of  wrong 
Vengeance  is  sure,  though  it  tarry  long. 

"  In  the  light  of  the  Lord,  a  flame  we  see 
Climb  and  kindle  a  proud  roof-tree  ; 
And  beneath  it  an  old  man  lying  dead, 
With  stains  of  blood  on  his  hoary  head." 

"  Smite,  Goodman  Hate  -  Evil !  —  harder 
still  ! " 

The  magistrate  cried,  "  lay  on  with  a  will  ! 

Drive  out  of  their  bodies  the  Father  of 
Lies, 

Who  through  them  preaches  and  prophe 
sies  !  " 

So  into  the  forest  they  held  their  way, 
By  winding  river  and  frost-rimmed  bay, 
Over  wind-swept  hills  that  felt  the  beat 
Of  the  winter  sea  at  their  icy  feet. 


The  Indian  hunter,  searching  his  traps, 
Peered  stealthily  through  the  forest  gaps  ; 
And  the  outlying  settler  shook  his  head,  — 
"  They  're  witches  going  to  jail,"  he  said. 

At  last  a  meeting-house  came  ir  view  ; 
A  blast  on  his  horn  the  constr  ole  blew  ; 
And  the  boys  of  Hampton  cried  up  and  down 
"  The  Quakers  have  come  !  "  to  the  won 
dering  town. 

From  barn  and  woodpile  the  goodman  came; 
The  goodwife  quitted  her  quilting  frame, 
With  her  child  at  her  breast  ;  and,  hobbling 

slow, 
The  grandam  followed  to  see  the  show. 

Once  more  the  torturing  whip  was  swung, 
Once  more  keen  lashes  the  bare  flesh  stung. 
"  Ob,  spare  !  they  are  bleeding  !  "  a  little 

maid  cried, 
And  covered  her  face  the  sight  to  hide. 

A  murmur  ran  round  the  crowd  :  "  Good 

folks," 
Quoth  the    constable,   busy   counting   the 

strokes, 

"  No  pity  to  wretches  like  these  is  due, 
They  have  beaten  the  gospel    black    and 

blue  ! " 

Then  a  pallid  woman,  in  wild-eyed  fear, 
With  her  wooden  noggin  of  milk  drew  near. 
"  Drink,  poor  hearts  !  "  a  rude  band  smote 
Her  draught  away  from  a  parching  throat. 

"  Take  heed,"  one  whispered,  "  they  '11  take 

your  cow 
For  fines,    as  they   took  your   horse    and 

plough, 

A  nd  the  bed  from  under  you."  "  Even  so," 
She  said  ;  "  they  are  cruel  as  death,  I  know." 

Then  on  they  passed,  in  the  waning  day, 
Through  Seabrook  woods,  a  weariful  way  ; 
By  great  salt  meadows  and  sand-bills  bare, 
And  glimpses  of  blue  sea  here  and  there. 

By  the  meeting-house  in  Salisbury  town, 
The  sufferers  stood,  in  the  red  sundown 
Bare  for  the  lash  !     O  pitying  Night, 
Drop  swift  thy  curtain  and  hide  the  sight ! 

With  shame  in  his  eye  and  wrath  on  his  lip 
The  Salisbury  constable  dropped  his  whip. 


I32 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


"  This  warrant  means  murder  foul  and  red  ; 
Cursed  is  he  who  serves  it,"  he  said. 

"  Show  me  the  order,  and  meanwhile  strike 
A  blow  at  your  peril  !  "  said  Justice  Pike. 
Of  all  the  rulers  the  land  possessed, 
Wisest  and  boldest  was  he  and  best. 

He  scoffed  at  witchcraft  ;  the  priest  he  met 
As  man  meets  man  ;  his  feet  he  set 
Beyond  his  dark  age,  standing  upright, 
Soul-free,  with  his  face  to  the  morning  light. 

He  read  the  warrant :  "  These  convey 
From  our  precincts  •  at  every  town  on  the  way 
Give   each   ten   lashes.'9     "  God   judge    the 

brute  ! 
I  tread  his  order  under  my  foot ! 

"  Cut  loose  these  poor  ones  and  let  them 

go  ; 

Come  what  will  of  it,  all  men  shall  know 
No  warrant  is  good,  though  backed  by  the 

Crown, 
For  whipping  women  in  Salisbury  town  !  " 

The  hearts  of  the  villagers,  half  released 
From  creed  of  terror  and  rule  of  priest, 
By  a  primal  instinct  owned  the  right 
Of  human  pity  in  law's  despite. 

For  ruth  and  chivalry  only  slept, 
His  Saxon  manhood  the  yeoman  kept  ; 
Quicker  or  slower,  the  same  blood  ran 
In  the  Cavalier  and  the  Puritan. 

The  Quakers  sank  on  their  knees  in  praise 
And  thanks.     A  last,  low  sunset  blaze 
Flashed  out  from  under  a  cloud,  and  shed 
A  golden  glory  011  each  bowed  head. 

The  tale  is  one  of  an  evil  time, 

When  souls  were  fettered  and  thought  was 

crime, 

And  heresy's  whisper  above  its  breath 
Meant  shameful  scourging  and  bonds  and 

death  ! 

What  marvel,  that  hunted  and  sorely  tried, 
Even  woman  rebuked  and  prophesied, 
And  soft  words  rarely  answered  back 
The  grim  persuasion  of  whip  and  rack  ! 

If  her  cry  from  the  whipping-post  and  jail 
Pierced  sharp  as  the  Kenitfi's  driven  nail, 


O  woman,  at  ease  in  these  happier  days, 
Forbear  to  judge  of  thy  sister's  ways  ! 

How  much  thy  beautiful  life  may  owe 

To  her  faith  and  courage  thou  canst  not 
know, 

Nor  how  from  the  paths  of  thy  calm  re 
treat 

She  smoothed  the  thorns  with  her  bleeding 
feet. 


SAINT  GREGORY'S  GUEST 

A  TALE  for  Roman  guides  to  tell 

To  careless,  sight-worn  travellers  still, 

Who  pause  beside  the  narrow  cell 
Of  Gregory  on  the  Caelian  Hill. 

One  day  before  the  monk's  door  came 
A  beggar,  stretching  empty  palms, 

Fainting  and  fast-sick,  in  the  name 
Of  the  Most  Holy  asking  alms. 

And  the  monk  answered,  "  All  I  have 
In  this  poor  cell  of  mine  I  give, 

The  silver  cup  my  mother  gave  ; 

In    Christ's    name    take    thou    it,   and 
live." 

Years  passed  ;  and,  called  at  last  to  bear 
The  pastoral  crook  and  keys  of  Rome, 

The  poor  monk,  in  Saint  Peter's  chair, 
Sat  the  crowned  lord  of  Christendom. 

"  Prepare  a  feast,"  Saint  Gregory  cried, 
"  And  let  twelve  beggars  sit  thereat." 

The  beggars  came,  and  one  beside, 
An  unknown  stranger,  with  them  sat. 

"  I  asked  thee  not,"  the  Pontiff  spake, 
"  O  stranger  ;  but  if  need  be  thine, 

I  bid  thee  welcome,  for  the  sake 

Of  Him  who  is  thy  Lord  and  mine." 

A  grave,  calm  face  the  stranger  raised, 
Like  His  who  on  Gennesaret  trod, 

Or  His  on  whom  the  Chaldeans  gazed, 
Whose  form  was  as  the  Son  of  God. 

"Know'st   thou,"   he    said,    "thy   gift    of 
old?" 

And  in  the  hand  he  lifted  up 
The  Pontiff  marvelled  to  behold 

Once  more  his  mother's  silver  cup. 


BIRCHBROOK   MILL 


"Thy   prayers   and   alms  have  risen,  and 
bloom 

Sweetly  among  the  flowers  of  heaven. 
I  am  The  Wonderful,  through  whom 

Whate'er  thou  askest  shall  be  given." 

He  spake  and  vanished.     Gregory  fell 
With  his  twelve  guests  in  mute  accord 

Prone  on  their  faces,  knowing  well 
Their  eyes  of  flesh  had  seen  the  Lord. 

The  old-time  legend  is  not  vain  ; 

Nor  vain  thy  art,  Verona's  Paul, 
Telling  it  o'er  and  o'er  again 

On  gray  Vicenza's  frescoed  wall. 

Still  wheresoever  pity  shares 

Its  bread  with  sorrow,  want,  and  sin, 

And  love  the  beggar's  feast  prepares, 
The  uninvited  Guest  comes  in. 

Unheard,  because  our  ears  are  dull, 
Unseen,  because  our  eyes  are  dim, 

Ha  walks  our  earth,  The  Wonderful, 
And  all  good  deeds  are  done  to  Him. 


BIRCHBROOK  MILL 

A  NOTELESS  stream,  the  Birchbrook  runs 

Beneath  its  leaning  trees  ; 
That  low,  soft  ripple  is  its  own, 

That  dull  roar  is  the  sea's. 

Of  human  signs  it  sees  alone 
The  distant  church  spire's  tip, 

And,  ghost-like,  on  a  blank  of  gray, 
The  white  sail  of  a  ship. 

No  more  a  toiler  at  the  wheel, 

It  wanders  at  its  will  ; 
Nor  dam  nor  pond  is  left  to  tell 

Where  once  was  Birchbrook  mill. 

The  timbers  of  that  mill  have  fed 

Long  since  a  farmer's  fires  ; 
His  doorsteps  are  the  stones  that  ground 

The  harvest  of  his  sires. 

Man  trespassed  here  ;  but  Nature  lost 

No  right  of  her  domain  ; 
She  waited,  and  she  brought  the  old 

Wild  beauty  back  again. 


By  day  the  sunlight  through  the  leaves 
Falls  on  its  moist,  green  sod, 

And  wakes  the  violet  bloom  of  spring 
And  autumn's  golden-rod. 

Its  birches  whisper  to  the  wind, 

The  swallow  dips  her  wings 
In  the  cool  spray,  and  on  its  banks 

The  gray  song-sparrow  sings. 

But  from  it,  when  the  dark  night  falls, 
The  school-girl  shrinks  with  dread  ; 

The  farmer,  home-bound  from  his  fields. 
Goes  by  with  quickened  tread. 

They  dare  not  pause  to  hear  the  grind 

Of  shadowy  stone  on  stone  ; 
The  plashing  of  a  water-wheel 

Where  wheel  there  now  is  none. 

Has  not  a  cry  of  pain  been  heard 

Above  the  clattering  mill  ? 
The  pawing  of  an  unseen  horse, 

Who  waits  his  mistress  still  ? 

Yet  never  to  the  listener's  eye 
Has  sight  confirmed  the  sound  ; 

A  wavering  birch  line  marks  alone 
The  vacant  pasture  ground. 

No  ghostly  arms  fling  up  to  heaven 

The  agony  of  prayer  ; 
No  spectral  steed  impatient  shakes 

His  white  mane  on  the  air. 

The  meaning  of  that  common  dread 

No  tongue  has  fitly  told  ; 
The  secret  of  the  dark  surmise 

The  brook  and  birches  hold. 

What  nameless  horror  of  the  past 

Broods  here  forevermore  ? 
What  ghost  his  unforgiven  sin 

Is  grinding  o'er  and  o'er  ? 

Does,  then,  immortal  memory  play 

The  actor's  tragic  part, 
Rehearsals  of  a  mortal  life 

And  unveiled  human  heart  ? 

God's  pity  spare  a  guilty  soul 

That  drama  of  its  ill, 
And  let  the  scenic  curtain  fall 

On  Birchbrook's  haunted  mill  ! 


134 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


THE   TWO    ELIZABETHS 

Read  at  the  unveiling-  of  the  bust  of  Elizabeth 
Fry  at  the  Friends'  School,  Providence,  K.  I. 

A.  D.   1207 

AMIDST  Thuringia's  wooded  hills  she  dwelt, 

A  high-born  princess,  servant  of  the  poor, 

Sweetening  with  gracious  words  the  food 

she  dealt 

To  starving  throngs  at  Wartburg's  bla 
zoned  door. 

A  blinded  zealot  held  her  soul  in  chains, 
Cramped  the  sweet  nature  that  he  could 

not  kill, 

Scarred  her  fair  body  with  his   penance- 
pains, 

And  gauged  her  conscience  by  his  narrow 
will. 

God  gave  her  gifts  of  beauty  and  of  grace, 
With  fast  and  vigil  she  denied  them  all  ; 

Unquestioning,  with  sad,  pathetic  face, 
She  followed  meekly  at  her  stern  guide's 
call. 

80  drooped  and  died  her  home-blown  rose 

of  bliss 

In  the  chill  rigor  of  a  discipline 
That  turned  her  fond  lips  from  her  chil 
dren's  kiss, 
And  made  her  joy  of  motherhood  a  sin. 

To  their  sad  level  by  compassion  led, 

One  with  the  low  and  vile  herself  she 

made, 
While  thankless  misery  mocked  the  hand 

that  fed, 

And  laughed  to  scorn  her  piteous  mas 
querade. 

But   still,  with   patience   that   outwearied 

hate, 
She  gave  her  all  while  yet  she  had  to 

give  ; 

And  then  her  empty  hands,  importunate, 
In  prayer  she  lifted  that  the  poor  might 
live. 

Sore  pressed  by  grief,  and  wrongs  more 

hard  to  bear, 

And  dwarfed  and  stifled  by  a  harsh  con 
trol, 


She  kept  life  fragrant  with  good  deeds  and 

prayer, 

And  fresh  and  pure  the  white  flower  of 
her  soul. 

Death  found  her  busy  at  her  task  :   one 

word 

Alone  she  uttered  as  she  paused  to  die, 
"  Silence  ! "  —  then   listened   even   as   one 

who  heard 

With  song  and  wing  the  angels  drawing 
nigh  ! 

Now  Fra  Angelico's  roses  fill  her  hands, 
And,    on    Murillo's   canvas,    Want    and 

Pain 
Kneel   at    her   feet.      Her   marble    image 

stands 

Worshipped  and  crowned  in  Marburg's 
holy  fane. 

Yea,  wheresoe'er  her  Church  its  cross  up- 

rears, 

Wide  as  the  world  her  story  still  is  told  ; 
In  manhood's  reverence,  woman's  prayers 

and  tears, 

She  lives  again  whose  grave  is  centuries 
old. 

And  still,  despite  the  weakness  or  the  blame 
Of  blind   submission   to  the   blind,  she 

hath 

A  tender  place  in  hearts  of  every  name, 
And  more  than  Rome  owns  Saint  Eliza 
beth  ! 

A.  D.  1780 

Slow  ages  passed  :  and  lo  !  another  came, 
An  English  matron,  in  whose  simple  faith 

Nor  priestly  rule  nor  ritual  had  claim, 
A  plain,  uncanonized  Elizabeth. 

No   sackcloth   robe,    nor  ashen  -  sprinkled 

hair, 
Nor  wasting  fast,  nor  scourge,  nor  vigil 

long, 
Marred  her  calm  presence.     God  had  made 

her  fair, 

And  she  could  do  His  goodly  work  no 
wrong. 

Their  yoke  is  easy  and  their  burden  light 
Whose   sole  confessor  is  the  Christ  of 
God; 


THE   HOMESTEAD 


Her   quiet    trust   and    faith    transcending 

sight 

Smoothed  to  her  feet  the  difficult  paths 
she  trod. 

And  there   she  walked,  as  duty  bade  her 

g°» 

Safe  and  unsullied  as  a  cloistered  nun, 
Shamed  with  her  plainness  Fashion's  gaudy 

show, 
And   overcame    the  world   she  did   not 

shun. 

In  Earlham's  bowers,  in  Plashet's  liberal 

hall, 
In  the  great  city's  restless   crowd  and 

din, 

Her  ear  was  open  to  the  Master's  call, 
And   knew  the   summons   of    His  voice 
within. 

Tender  as  mother,  beautiful  as  wife, 

Amidst   the    throngs  of  prisoned  crime 

she  stood 

In  modest  raiment  faultless  as  her  life, 
The  type  of  England's  worthiest  woman 
hood  ! 

To  melt  the  hearts  that  harshness  turned  to 

stone 

The  sweet  persuasion  of  her  lips  sufficed, 
A.nd  guilt,  which  only  hate  and  fear  had 

known, 
Saw  in  her  own  the  pitying  love  of  Christ. 

•So  wheresoe'er  the  guiding  Spirit  went 
She  followed,  finding  every  prison  cell 

It  opened  for  her  sacred  as  a  tent 

Pitched  by  Gennesaret  or  by  Jacob's  well. 

And  Pride  and  Fashion  felt  her  strong  ap 
peal, 
And  priest  and  ruler  marvelled  as  they 

saw 
How  hand  in  hand  went  wisdom  with  her 

zeal, 

And  woman's  pity  kept  the  bounds  of 
law. 

She  rests  in  God's  peace  ;  but  her  memory 

stirs 

The  air  of  earth  as  with  an  angel's  wings, 
And  warms  and  moves  the  hearts  of  men 

like  hers, 
The  sainted  daughter  of  Hungarian  kings. 


United  now,  the  Briton  and  the  Hun, 
Each,   in    her   own   time,    faithful   unto 
death, 

Live  sister  souls  !  in  name  and  spirit  one, 
Thuringia's  saint  and  our  Elizabeth  ! 


REQUITAL 

As  Islam's  Prophet,  when  his  last  day  drew 
Nigh  to   its  close,  besought  all  men  to 

say 
Whom  he  had  wronged,  to  whom  he  then 

should  pay 

A  debt  forgotten,  or  for  pardon  sue, 
And,  through  the  silence  of  his  weeping 

friends, 
A  strange  voice  cried  :  "  Thou  owest  me 

a  debt," 
"  Allah     be    praised  ! "     he     answered. 

"  Even  yet 

He  gives  me  power  to  make  to  thee  amends. 
O    friend  !    I    thank   thee  for    thy   timely 

word." 
So  runs   the    tale.     Its   lesson   all   ma; 

heed, 
For  all  have  sinned  in  thought,  or  word, 

or  deed, 
Or,  like  the  Prophet,  through  neglect  have 

erred. 

All  need  forgiveness,  all  have  debts  to  pay 
Eie  the  night  cometh,  while  it  still  is  day. 


THE   HOMESTEAD 

AGAINST  the  wooded  hills  it  stands, 
Ghost  of  a  dead  home,  staring  through 

Its  broken  lights  on  wasted  lands 
Where  old-time  harvests  grew. 

Unploughed,  unsown,  by  scythe  unshorn, 
The  poor,  forsaken  farm-fields  lie, 

Once  rich  and  rife  with  golden  corn 
And  pale  green  breadths  of  rye. 

Of  healthful  herb  and  flower  bereft, 
The  garden  plot  no  housewife  keeps  ; 

Through  weeds  and  tangle  only  left, 
The  snake,  its  tenant,  creeps. 

A  lilac  spray,  still  blossom-clad, 

Sways  slow  before  the  empty  rooms  ; 

Beside  the  roofless  porch  a  sad 
Pathetic  red  rose  blooms. 


136 


NARRATIVE  AND   LEGENDARY   POEMS 


His  track,  in  mould  and  dust  of  drouth, 
On  floor  and  hearth  the  squirrel  leaves, 

And  in  the  fireless  chimney's  mouth 
His  web  the  spider  weaves, 

The  leaning  barn,  about  to  fall, 

Resounds  no  more  on  husking  eves  ; 

No  cattle  low  in  yard  or  stall, 
No  thresher  beats  his  sheaves. 

So  sad,  so  drear  !     It  seems  almost 

Some  haunting  Presence  makes  its  sign  ; 

That  down  yon  shadowy  lane  some  ghost 
Might  drive  his  spectral  kine  ! 

O  home  so  desolate  and  lorn  ! 

Did  all  thy  memories  die  with  thee  ? 
Were  any  wed,  were  any  born, 

Beneath  this  low  roof-tree  ? 

Whose  axe  the  wall  of  forest  broke, 

And  let  the  waiting  sunshine  through  ? 

What  good  wife  sent  the  earliest  smoke 
Up  the  great  chimney  flue  ? 

Did  rustic  lovers  hither  come  ? 

Did  maidens,  swaying  back  and  forth 
In  rhythmic  grace,  at  wheel  and  loona^ 

Make  light  their  toil  with  mirth  ? 

Did  child  feet  patter  on  the  stair  ? 

Did  boyhood  frolic  in  the  snow  ? 
Did  gray  age,  in  her  elbow  chair, 

Knit,  rocking  to  and  fro  ? 

The  murmuring  brook,  the  sighing  breeze, 
The  pine's  slow  whisper,  cannot  tell  ; 

Low  mounds  beneath  the  hemlock-trees 
Keep  the  home  secrets  well. 

Cease,  mother-land,  to  fondly  boast 
Of  sons  far  off  who  strive  and  thrive, 

Forgetful  that  each  swarming  host 
Must  leave  an  emptier  hive  ! 

O  wanderers  from  ancestral  soil, 

Leave  noisome  mill  and  chaffering  store  : 

Gird  up  your  loins  for  sturdier  toil, 
And  build  the  home  once  more  ! 

Come  back  to  bayberry-scented  slopes, 
And  fragrant  fern,  and  ground-nut  vine  ; 

Breathe  airs  blown  over  holt  and  copse 
Sweet  with  black  birch  and  pine. 


What  matter  if  the  gains  are  small 
That  life's  essential  wants  supply  ? 

Your  homestead's  title  gives  you  all 
That  idle  wealth  can  buy. 

All  that  the  many-dollared  crave, 

The  brick- walled  slaves  of   'Change  and 

mart, 
Lawns,  trees,  fresh  air,  and  flowers,  yoi 

have, 
More  dear  for  lack  of  art. 

Your  own  sole  masters,  freedom-will,;^ 
With  none  to  bid  you  go  or  stay, 

Till  the  old  fields  your  fathers  tilled, 
As  manly  men  as  they  ! 

With  skill  that  spares  your  toiling 
And  chemic  aid  that  science  brings, 

Reclaim  the  waste  and  outworn  lands, 
And  reign  thereon  as  kings  ! 


HOW   THE    ROBIN    CAME 

AX  ALGONQUIN  LEGEND 

HAPPY  young  friends,  sit  by  me, 
Under  May's  blown  apple-tree, 
While  these  home-birds  in  and  out 
Through  the  blossoms  flit  about. 
Hear  a  story,  strange  and  old, 
By  the  wild  red  Indians  told, 
How  the  robin  came  to  be  : 
Once  a  great  chief  left  his  son,  — 
Well-beloved,  his  only  one,  — 
When  the  boy  was  well-nigh  grown, 
In  the  trial-lodge  alone. 
Left  for  tortures  long  and  slow 
Youths  like  him  must  undergo. 
Who  their  pride  of  manhood  ^est, 
Lacking  water,  food,  and  rest. 

Seven  days  the  fast  he  kept, 

Seven  nights  he  never  slept. 

Then  the  young  boy,  wrung  with  pain. 

Weak  from  nature's  overstrain, 

Faltering,  moaned  a  low  complaint  • 

"  Spare  me,  father,  for  I  faint !  " 

But  the  chieftain,  hanghty-eyed, 

Hid  his  pity  in  his  pride. 

"  You  shall  be  a  hunter  good, 

Knowing  never  lack  of  food  i 


BANISHED   FROM   MASSACHUSETTS 


'37 


You  shall  be  a  warrior  great, 
Wise  as  fox  and  strong  as  bear  ; 
Many  scalps  your  belt  shall  wear, 
If  with  patient  heart  you  wait 
Bravely  till  your  task  is  done. 
Better  you  should  starving  die 
Than  that  boy  and  squaw  should  cry 
Shame  upon  your  father's  sou  !  " 

When  next  morn  the  sun's  first  rays 
Glistened  on  the  hemlock  sprays, 
Straight  that  lodge  the  old  chief  sought, 
And      boiled      samp     and      moose     meat 

brought. 

"  Rise  and  eat,  my  son  !  "  he  said. 
Lo,  he  found  the  poor  boy  dead  ! 
As  with  grief  his  grave  they  made, 
And  his  bow  beside  him  laid, 
Pipe,  and  knife,  and  wampum-braid, 
On  the  lodge-top  overhead, 
Preening  smooth  its  breast  of  red 
And  the  brown  coat  that  it  wore, 
Sat  a  bird,  unknown  before. 
And  as  if  with  human  tongue, 
"  Mourn  me  not,"  it  said,  or  sung  ; 
"  I,  a  bird,  am  still  your  son, 
Happier  than  if  hunter  fleet, 
Or  a  brave,  before  your  feet 
Laying  scalps  in  battle  won. 
Friend  of  man,  my  song  shall  cheer 
Lodge  and  corn-land  ;  hovering  near, 
To  each  wigwam  I  shall  bring 
Tidings  of  the  coming  spring  ; 
Every  child  my  voice  shall  know 
In  the  moon  of  melting  snow, 
When  the  maple's  red  bud  swells, 
And  the  wind-flower  lifts  its  bells. 
As  their  fond  companion 
Men  shall  henceforth  own  your  son, 
And  my  song  shall  testify 
That  of  human  kin  am  I." 

Thus  the  Indian  legend  saith 
How,  at  first,  the  robin  came 
With  a  sweeter  life  than  death, 
Bird  for  boy,  and  still  the  same. 
If  my  young  friends  doubt  that  this 
Is  the  robin's  genesis, 
Not  in  vain  is  still  the  myth 
If  a  truth  be  found  therewith  : 
Unto  gentleness  belong 
Gifts  unknown  to  pride  and  wrong  ; 
Happier  far  than  hate  is  praise,  — 
He  who  sings  than  he  who  slays. 


BANISHED     FROM      MASSACHU 
SETTS 

1660 

On  a  painting-  by  E.  A.  Abbey.  The  Gen 
eral  Court  of  Massachusetts  enacted  Oct.  19, 
1658,  that  "  any  person  or  persons  of  the  cursed 
sect  of  Quakers  "  should,  on  conviction  of  the 
same,  be  banished,  011  pain  of  death,  from  the 
jurisdiction  of  the  commonwealth. 

OVER  the  threshold  of  his  pleasant  home 
Set  in  green  clearings  passed  the  exiled 

Friend, 

In  simple  trust,  misdoubting  not  the  end. 
"  Dear  heart  of  mine  !  "  he  said,  "  the  time 

has  come 
To  trust  the  Lord  for  shelter."     One  long 

gaze 
The    goodwife  turned  on  each   familiar 

thing,  — 

The  lowing  kine,  the  orchard  blossoming, 
The  open  door  that  showed  the  hearth-fire's 

blaze, — 

And  calmly  answered,  "  Yes,  He  will  pro 
vide." 

Silent  and  slow  they  crossed  the  home 
stead's  bound, 
Lingering  the    longest  by  their   child's 

grave-mound. 
"  Move  on,  or  stay  and  hang  !  "  the  sheriff 

cried. 
They  left  behind  them  more  than  home  or 

land, 
And  set  sad  faces  to  an  alien  strand. 

Safer  with  winds  and  waves  than  human 

wrath, 
With  ravening  wolves  than  those  whose 

zeal  for  God 

Was  cruelty  to  man,  the  exiles  trod 
Drear  leagues  of  forest  without  guide  or 

path, 
Or  launching  frail  boats  on  the  uncharted 

sea, 
Round  storm-vexed  capes,  whose  teeth  of 

granite  ground 
The  waves  to  foam,  their  perilous  way 

they  wound, 

Enduring  all  things  so  their  souls  were  free. 
Oh,  true  confessors,  shaming  them  who  did 
Anew  the  wrong  their  Pilgrim  Fathers 
bore  ! 


NARRATIVE   AND   LEGENDARY    POEMS 


For  you  the  Mayflower  spread  her  sail 

once  more, 

Freighted  with  souls,  to  all  that  duty  bid 
Faithful  as  they  who  sought  an  unknown 

land, 
O'er  wintry  seas,  from  Holland's  Hook  of 

Sand! 

So  from  his  lost  home  to  the  darkening  main, 
Bodeful  of   storm,  stout  Macy  held  his 

way, 
And,  when  the  green  shore  blended  with 

the  gray, 
His  poor  wife  moaned  :  "  Let  us  turn  back 

again." 
"  Nay,  woman,  weak  of  faith,  kneel  down," 

said  he, 
"  And  say  thy  prayers  :  the  Lord  himself 

will  steer ; 
And  led  by  Him,  nor  man  nor  devils  I 

fear  !  " 

So  the  gray  Southwicks,  from  a  rainy  sea, 
Saw,  far  and  faint,  the  loom  of  land,  and 

gave 
With  feeble  voices  thanks  for   friendly 

ground 
Whereon  to  rest   their  weary   feet,  and 

found 

A  peaceful  death-bed  and  a  quiet  grave 
Where,  ocean-walled,  and   wiser   than    his 

age, 

The   lord  of   Shelter  scorned   the    bigot's 
rage. 

Aquidneck's  isle,  Nantucket's  lonely  shores, 
And  Indian-haunted  Narragansett  saw 
The    way-worn    travellers    round    their 

camp-fire  draw, 

Or  heard  the  plashing  of  their  weary  oars. 
And  every  place  whereon  they  rested  grew 
Happier  for  pure  and  gracious  woman 
hood, 
And  men  whose  names  for  stainless  honor 

stood, 

Founders  of  States  and  rulers  wise  and  true. 

The  Muse  of  history  yet  shall  make  amends 

To  those  who  freedom,  peace,  and  justice 

taught, 
Beyond  their  dark  age  led  the  van  of 

thought, 

And  left  unforfeited  the  name  of  Friends. 
O  mother    State,  how  foiled  was  thy  de 
sign  ! 

The  gain  was  theirs,  the    loss   alone  was 
thins. 


THE  BROWN  DWARF  OF  RUGEN 

The  hint  of  this  ballad  is  found  in  Arndt's 
Miirchen,  Berlin,  181(5.  The  ballad  appeared 
first  in  St.  Nicholas,  whose  young-  readers  were 
advised,  while  smiling  at  the  absurd  supersti 
tion,  to  remember  that  bad  companionship  and 
evil  habits,  desires,  and  passions  are  more  to 
be  dreaded  now  than  the  Elves  and  Trolls  who 
frightened  the  children  of  past  ages. 

THE  pleasant  isle  of  Riigen  looks  the  Baltic 
water  o'er, 

To  the  silver-sanded  beaches  of  the  Pom 
eranian  shore  ; 

And  in  the  town  of  Rambin  a  little  boy  and 

maid 
Plucked  the  meadow-flowers  together  and 

in  the  sea-surf  played. 

Alike  were  they  in  beauty  if  not  in  their 
degree  : 

He  was  the  Amptman's  first-born,  the  mil 
ler's  child  was  she. 

Now  of  old  the  isle  of  Riigen  was  full  of 

Dwarfs  and  Trolls, 
The    brown-faced    little     Earth-men,    the 

people  without  souls  ; 

And  for  every  man  and  woman  in  Riigen 's 

island  found 
Walking  in  air  and  sunshine,  a  Troll   was 

underground. 

It  chanced  the  little  maiden,  one  morning, 

strolled  away 
Among  the  haunted  Nine  Hills,  where  the 

elves  and  goblins  play. 

That  day,  in  barley  fields  below,  the  har 
vesters  had  known 

Of  evil  voices  in  the  air,  and  heard  the 
small  horns  blown. 

She  came  not  back  ;  the  search  for  her  in 

field  and  wood  was  vain  : 
They  cried  her  east,  they  cried  her  west. 

but  she  came  not  again. 

"  She  's  down  among  the  Brown  Dwarfs," 
said  the  dream-wives  wise  and  old, 

And  prayers  were  made,  and  mnssc-;  xii'l 
and  Rambiu's  church  bell  tolled 


THE  BROWN   DWARF   OF   Rt/GEN 


'39 


Five   years  her  father  mourned  her  ;  and 

then  John  Deitrich  said  : 
"  I  will    find    my  little    playmate,  be    she 

alive  or  dead." 

He  watched  among  the  Nine  Hills,  he 
heard  the  Brown  Dwarfs  sing-, 

A.nd  saw  them  dance  by  moonlight  merrily 
in  a  ring. 

>nd  when  their  gay-robed  leader  tossed  up 

his  cap  of  red, 
\oung   Deitrich  caught  it    as  it   fell,  and 

thrust  it  on  his  head. 

The  Troll  came  crouching  at  his  feet  and 

wept  for  lack  of  it. 
"  Oh,  give  me  back  my  magic  cap,  for  your 

great  head  unfit  !  " 

"  Nay,"  Deitrich  said  ;  "  the  Dwarf  who 
throws  his  charmed  cap  away, 

Must  serve  its  finder  at  his  will,  and  for 
his  folly  pay. 

-'  You  stole  my  pretty  Lisbeth,  and  hid  her 

in  the  earth  ; 
And  you  shall  ope  the  door  of  glass  and  let 

me  lead  her  forth." 

"  She  will  not  come  ;  she  's  one  of  us  ;  she  's 
mine  !  "  the  Brown  Dwarf  said  ; 

"  The  day  is  Svit,  the  cake  is  baked,  to-mor 
row  we  shall  wed." 

"  The  fell  fiend  fetch  thee  !  "  Deitrich  cried, 
"  and  keep  thy  foul  tongue  still. 

Quick  !  open,  to  thy  evil  world,  the  glass 
door  of  the  hill !  " 

The  Dwarf  obeyed  ;  and  youth  and  Troll 
down  the  long  stairway  passed, 

And  saw  in  dim  and  sunless  light  a  country 
strange  and  vast. 

Weird,  rich,  and   wonderful,  he    saw   the 

elfin  under-land,  — 
Its  palaces  of  precious  stones,  its  streets  of 

golden  sand. 

He  came  unto  a  banquet-hall  with  tables 

richly  spread, 
Where  a  young  maiden  served  to  him  the 

red  wine  and  the  bread. 


How  fair  she  seemed  among  the  Trolls  so 

ugly  and  so  wild  ! 
Yet  pale  and  very  sorrowful,  like  one  who 

never  smiled  ! 

Her  low,  sweet  voice,  her  gold-brown  hair, 
her  tender  blue  eyes  seemed 

Like  something  he  had  seen  elsewhere  or 
something  he  had  dreamed. 

He  looked  ;  he  clasped  her  in  his  arms  ;  he 

knew  the  long-lost  one  ; 
"  O  Lisbeth  !  See  thy  playmate  —  I  am  the 

Amptman's  son  ! " 

She  leaned  her  fair  head  on  his  breast,  and 
through  her  sobs  she  spoke  : 

"Oh,  take  me  from  this  evil  place,  and 
from  the  elfin  folk  ! 

"  And  let  me  tread  the  grass-green  fields 
and  smell  the  flowers  again, 

And  feel  the  soft  wind  on  my  cheek  and 
hear  the  dropping  rain  ! 

"  And    oh,    to  hear  the  singing  bird,   the 

rustling  of  the  tree, 
The  lowing  cows,  the  bleat  of  sheep,  the 

voices  of  the  sea  ; 

"  And  oh,  upon  my  father's  knee  to  sit  be 
side  the  door, 

And  hear  the  bell  of  vespers  ring  in  Ram- 
bin  church  once  more  !  " 

He   kissed  her  cheek,  he  kissed  her  lips  ; 

the  Brown  Dwarf  groaned  to  see. 
And  tore  his  tangled  hair  and  ground  his 

long  teeth  angrily. 

But  Deitrich  said  :  "  For  five  long  years 
this  tender  Christian  maid 

Has  served  you  in  your  evil  world,  and  well 
must  she  be  paid  ! 

"  Haste  !  —  hither  bring  me  precious  gems, 

the  richest  in  your  store  ; 
Then  when  we  pass  the  gate  of  glass,  you  '11 

take  your  cap  once  more." 

No  choice  was  left  the  baffled  Troll,  and, 

murmuring,  he  obeyed, 
And  filled  the  pockets  of  the  youth  and 

apron  of  the  maid. 


140 


NARRATIVE   AND    LEGENDARY   POEMS 


They    left    the    dreadful    under-land   and 

passed  the  gate  of  glass  ; 
They  felt  the  sunshine's  warm  caress,  they 

trod  the  soft,  green  grass. 

And  when,  beneath,  they  saw  the  Dwarf 
stretch  up  to  them  his  brown 

And  crooked  claw-like  fingers,  they  tossed 
his  red  cap  down. 

Oh,  never  shone  so  bright  a  sun,  was  never 

sky  so  blue, 
As  hand  in  hand  they  homeward  walked 

the  pleasant  meadows  through  ! 

And  never  sang  the  birds  so  sweet  in  Ram- 
bin's  woods  before, 

And  never  washed  the  waves  so  soft  along 
the  Baltic  shore  ; 

And  when  beneath  his  door-yard  trees  the 

father  met  his  child, 
The  bells  rung  out  their  merriest  peal,  the 

folks  with  joy  ran  wild. 


And  soon  from  Rambin's  holy  church  the 
twain  came  forth  as  one, 

The  Amptman  kissed  a  daughter,  the  mil 
ler  blest  a  son. 

John  Deitrich's  fame  went  far  and  wide, 
and  nurse  and  maid  crooned  o'er 

Their  cradle  song  :  "  Sleep  on,  sleep  well, 
the  Trolls  shall  come  no  more  !  " 

For  in  the  haunted  Nine   Hills  he  set  a 

cross  of  stone  ; 
And  Elf  and  Brown  Dwarf  sought  in  vain 

a  door  where  door  was  none. 

The  tower  he  built  in  Rambin,  fair  Riigen's 

/ride  and  boast, 
o'er  the  Baltic  water  to  the  Pome 
ranian  coast ; 

And,  for  his  worth  ennobled,  and  rich  be 
yond  compare, 

Count  Deitrich  and  his  lovely  bride  dwelt 
long  and  happy  there. 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 


THE   FROST   SPIRIT 

HE  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit 
comes  !  You  may  trace  his  foot 
steps  now 

On  the  naked  woods  and  the  blasted  fields 
and  the  brown  hill's  withered  brow. 

He  has  smitten  the  leaves  of  the  gray  old 
trees  where  their  pleasant  green 
came  forth, 

And  the  winds,  which  follow  wherever  he 
goes,  have  shaken  them  down  to 
earth. 

He  comes,  — he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit 

comes  !  from  the  frozen  Labrador, 
From  the  icy  bridge  of  the  Northern  seas, 

which  the  white  bear  wanders  o'er, 
Where  the  fisherman's  sail  is  stiff  with  ice, 

and  the  luckless  forms  below 
In  the  sunless  cold  of  the  lingering  night 

into  marble  statues  grow  ! 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit 

comes  !    on   the   rushing    Northern 

blast, 
And  the  dark  Norwegian  pines  have  bowed 

as  his  fearful  breath  went  past. 
With  an  unscorehed  wing  he  has  hurried  on, 

where  the  fires  of  Hecla  glow 
On  the  darkly  beautifiil  sky  above  and  the 

ancient  ice  below. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit 

comes  !  and  the  quiet  lake  shall  feel 
The  torpid  touch  of  his  glazing  breath,  and 

ring  to  the  skater's  heel  ; 
And   the    streams    which    danced   on    the 

broken  rocks,  or  sang  to  the  leaning 

grass, 
Shall  bow  again  to  their  winter  chain,  and 

in  mournful  silence  pass. 

He  comes,  —  he  comes,  —  the  Frost  Spirit 
comes  !  Let  us  meet  him  as  we  may, 


And  turn  with  the  light  of  the  parlor-fire 

his  evil  power  away  ; 
And  gather  closer  the  circle  round,  when 

that  firelight  dances  high, 
And  laugh  at  the  shriek  of  the  baffled  Fiend 

as  his  sounding  wing  goes  by  1 


THE   MERRIMAC 

"  The  Indians  speak  of  a  beautiful  river,  far 
to   the  south,  which  they  call  Merrimac."  — - 

SlEUB   BE   MONTS,  1604. 

STREAM  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still 

The  sunset  rays  thy  valley  fill  ; 

Poured  slantwise  down  the  long  defile, 

Wave,  wood,  and  spire  beneath  them  smile. 

I  see  the  winding  Powow  fold 

The  green  hill  in  its  belt  of  gold, 

And  following  down  its  wavy  line, 

Its  sparkling  waters  blend  with  thine. 

There  's  not  a  tree  upon  thy  side, 

Nor  rock,  which  thy  returning  tide 

As  yet  hath  left  abrupt  and  stark 

Above  thy  evening  water-mark  ; 

No  calm  cove  with  its  rocky  hem, 

No  isle  whose  emerald  swells  begem 

Thy  broad,  smooth  current  ;  not  a  sail 

Bowed  to  the  freshening  ocean  gale  ; 

No  small  boat  with  its  busy  oars, 

Nor  gray  wall  sloping  to  thy  shores  ; 

Nor  farm-house  with  its  maple  shade, 

Or  rigid  poplar  colonnade, 

But  lies  distinct  and  full  in  sight, 

Beneath  this  gush  of  sunset  light. 

Centuries  ago,  that  harbor-bar, 

Stretching  its  length  of  foam  afar, 

And  Salisbury's  beach  of  shining  sand, 

And  yonder  island's  wave-smoothed  strand, 

Saw  the  adventurer's  tiny  sail, 

Flit,  stooping  from  the  eastern  gale  ; 

And  o'er  these  woods  and  waters  broke 

The  cheer  from  Britain's  hearts  of  oak, 

As  brightly  on  the  voyager's  eye, 


142 


POEMS    OF   NATURE 


Weary  of  forest,  sea,  and  sky, 

Breaking  the  dull  continuous  wood, 

The  Merriinac  rolled  down  his  flood  ; 

Mingling  that  clear  pellucid  brook, 

Which  channels  vast  Agioochook 

When  spring-time's  sun  and  shower  unlock 

The  frozen  fountains  of  the  rock, 

And  more  abundant  waters  given 

From    that    pure    lake,    "The    Smile    of 

Heaven," 

Tributes  from  vale  and  mountain-side,  — 
With  ocean's  dark,  eternal  tide  ! 

On  yonder  rocky  cape,  which  braves 
The  stormy  challenge  of  the  waves, 
Midst  tangled  vine  and  dwarfish  wood, 
The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood, 
Planting  upon  the  topmost  crag 
The  staff  of  England's  battle-flag  ; 
And,  while  from  out  its  heavy  fold 
Saint  George's  crimson  cross  unrolled, 
Midst  roll  of  drum  and  trumpet  blare, 
And  weapons  brandishing  in  air, 
He  gave  to  that  lone  promontory 
The  sweetest  name  in  all  his  story  ; 
Of  her,  the  flower  of  Islam's  daughters, 
Whose    harems    look   on    Stamboul's    wa 
ters,  — 

Who,  when  the  chance  of  war  had  bound 
The  Moslem  chain  his  limbs  around, 
Wreathed  o'er  with  silk  that  iron  chain, 
Soothed  with  her  smiles  his  hours  of  pain, 
And  fondly  to  her  youthful  slave 
A  dearer  gift  than  freedom  gave. 

But  look  !  the  yellow  light  no  more 
Streams  down  on  wave  and  verdant  shore  ; 
And  clearly  on  the  calm  air  swells 
The  twilight  voice  of  distant  bells. 
From  Ocean's  bosom,  white  and  thin, 
The  mists  come  slowly  rolling  in  ; 
Hills,  woods,  the  river's  rocky  rim, 
Amidst  the  sea-like  vapor  swim, 
While  yonder  lonely  coast-light,  set 
Within  its  wave-washed  minaret, 
Half  quenched,  a  beamless  star  and  pale, 
Shines  dimly  through  its  cloudy  veil ! 

Home  of  my  fathers  !  —  I  have  stood 
Where  Hudson  rolled  his  lordly  flood  : 
Seen  sunrise  rest  and  sunset  fade 
Along  his  frowning  Palisade  ; 
Looked  down  the  Appalachian  peak 
On  Juniata's  silver  streak  ; 
Have  seen  along  his  valley  gleam 


The  Mohawk's  softly  winding  stream  ; 
The  level  light  of  sunset  shine 
Through  broad  Potomac's  hem  of  pine  ; 
And  autumn's  rainbow-tinted  banner 
Hang  lightly  o'er  the  Susquehanna  ; 
Yet  wheresoe'er  his  step  might  be, 
Thy  wandering  child  looked  back  to  thee  ! 
Heard  in  his  dreams  thy  river's  sound 
Of  murmuring  on  its  pebbly  bound, 
The  unforgotten  swell  and  roar 
Of  waves  on  thy  familiar  shore  ; 
And  saw,  amidst  the  curtained  gloom 
And  quiet  of  his  lonely  room, 
Thy  sunset  scenes  before  him  pass  ; 
As,  in  Agrippa's  magic  glass, 
The  loved  and  lost  arose  to  view, 
Remembered  groves  in  greenness  grew, 
Bathed  still  in  childhood's  morning  dew, 
Along  whose  bowers  of  beauty  swept 
Whatever  Memory's  mourners  wept, 
Sweet  faces,  which  the  charnel  kept, 
Young,  gentle  eyes,  which  long  had  slept ; 
And  while  the  gazer  leaned  to  trace, 
More  near,  some  dear  familiar  face, 
He  wept  to  find  the  vision  flown,  — 
A  phantom  and  a  dream  alone  ! 


HAMPTON    BEACH 

THE  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright, 

Where,  miles  away, 
Lies  stretching  to  my  dazzled  sight 
A  luminous  belt,  a  misty  light, 
Beyond  the  dark  pine  bluffs  and  wastes  o* 
sandy  gray. 

The  tremulous  shadow  of  the  Sea  ! 

Against  its  ground 
Of  silvery  light,  rock,  hill,  and  tree, 
Still  as  a  picture,  clear  and  free, 
With  varying  outline  mark  the  coast   fci 
miles  around. 

On  —  on  —  we  tread  with  loose -flu  r.g  rein 

Our  seaward  way, 

Through  dark-green  fields  and  blossom 
ing  grain, 

Where  the  wild  brier-rose  skirts  the  lane, 
And  bends  above  our  heads  the  flowering 
locust  spray. 

Ha  !  like  a  kind  hand  on  my  brow 

Comes  this  fresh  breeze, 
Cooling  its  dull  and  feverish  glow, 


A  DREAM   OF  SUMMER 


While  through  my  being  seems  to  flow 
The  breath  of  a  new  life,  the  healing  of 
the  seas  ! 

Now  rest  we,  where  this  grassy  mound 

His  feet  hath  set 

In  the  great  waters,  which  have  bound 
His  granite  ankles  greenly  round 
With  long  and  tangled  moss,  and  weeds 
with  cool  spray  wet. 

Good-by  to  Pain  and  Care  !  I  take 

Mine  ease  to-day  : 

Here  where  these  sunny  waters  break, 
And  ripples  this  keen  breeze,  I  shake 
All   burdens  from    the    heart,   all     weary 
thoughts  away. 

I  draw  a  freer  breath,  I  seem 

Like  all  I  see  — 
Waves   in    the    sun,    the    white-winged 

gleam 

Of  sea-birds  in  the  slanting  beam, 
And  far-off  sails  which  flit  before  the  south- 
wind  free. 

So  when  Time's  veil  shall  fall  aeunder, 

The  soul  may  know 
No  fearful  change,  nor  sudden  wonder, 
Nor  sink  the  weight  of  mystery  under, 
But  with  the  upward  rise,  and  with  the 
vastness  grow. 

And     all    we    shrink    from    now    may 

seem 

No  new  revealing  ; 
Familiar  as  our  childhood's  stream, 
Or  pleasant  memory  of  a  dream 
The  loved  and  cherished    Past  upon    the 
new  life  stealing. 

Serene  and  mild  the  untried  light 

May  have  its  dawning  ; 
And,  as  in  summer's  northern  night 
The  evening  and  the  dawn  unite, 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  blend   with  the 
soul's  new  morning. 

I  sit  alone  ;  in  foam  and  spray 

Wave  after  wave 
Breaks   on    the   rocks  which,  stern  and 


Shoulder  the  broken  tide  away, 
Or  murmurs  hoarse  and  strong    through 
mossy  cleft  and  cave. 


What  heed  I  of  the  dusty  land 

And  noisy  town  ? 
I  see  the  mighty  deep  expand 
From  its  white  line  of  glimmering  sand 
To   where    the    blue    of   heaven  on  bluer 
waves  shuts  down  ! 

In  listless  quietude  of  mind, 

I  yield  to  all 

The  change  of  cloud  and  wave  and  wind; 
And  passive  011  the  flood  reclined, 
I  wander  with  the   waves,  and  with  them 
rise  and  fall. 

But  look,  thou  dreamer  !  wave  and  shore 

In  shadow  lie  ; 

The  night-wind  warns  me  back  once  more 
To  where,  my  native  hill-tops  o'er, 
Bends  like  an  arch  of  tire  the  glowing  sun 
set  sky. 

So  then,  beach,  bluff,  and  wave,  farewell  ! 

I  bear  with  me 

No  token  stone  nor  glittering  shell, 
But  long  and  oft  shall  Memory  tell 
Of  this  brief  thoughtful  hour  of  musing  by 
the  Sea. 


A    DREAM    OF    SUMMER 

BLAND  as  the  morning  breath  of  June 

The  southwest  breezes  play  ; 
And,  through  its  haze,  the  winter  noon 

Seems  warm  as  summer's  day. 
The  snow-plumed  Angel  of  the  North 

Has  dropped  his  icy  spear  ; 
Again  the  mossy  earth  looks  forth, 

Again  the  streams  gush  clear. 

The  fox  his  hillside  cell  forsakes, 

The  muskrat  leaves  his  nook, 
The  bluebird  in  the  meadow  brakes 

Is  singing  with  the  brook. 
"  Bear  up,  O  Mother  Nature  !  "  cry 

Bird,  breeze,  and  streamlet  free  ; 
"  Our  winter  voices  prophesy 

Of  summer  days  to  thee  !  " 

So,  in  those  winters  of  the  soul, 

By  bitter  blasts  and  drear 
O'erswept  from  Memory's  frozen  pole 

Will  sunny  days  appear. 
Reviving  Hope  and  Faith,  they  show 

The  soul  its  living  powers, 


144 


POEMS    OF   NATURE 


And  how  beneath  the  winter's  snow 
Lie  germs  of  summer  flowers  ! 

The  Night  is  mother  of  the  Day, 

The  Winter  of  the  Spring, 
And  ever  upon  old  Decay 

The  greenest  mosses  cling. 
Behind  the  cloud  the  starlight  lurks, 

Through  showers  the  sunbeams  fall  ; 
For  God,  who  loveth  all  His  works, 

Has  left  His  hope  with  all ! 


THE    LAKESIDE 

THE  shadows  round  the  inland  sea 

Are  deepening  into  night  ; 
Slow  up  the  slopes  of  Ossipee 

They  chase  the  lessening  light. 
Tired  of  the  long  day's  blinding  heat, 

I  rest  my  languid  eye, 
Lake  of  the  Hills  !  where,  cool  and  sweet, 

Thy  sunset  waters  lie  ! 

Along  the  sky,  in  wavy  lines, 

O'er  isle  and  reach  and  bay, 
Green-belted  with  eternal  pines, 

The  mountains  stretch  away. 
Below,  the  maple  masses  sleep 

Where  shore  with  water  blends, 
While  midway  on  the  tranquil  deep 

The  evening  light  descends. 

So  seemed  it  when  yon  hill's  red  crown, 

Of  old,  the  Indian  trod, 
And,  through  the  sunset  air,  looked  down 

Upon  the  Smile  of  God. 
To  him  of  light  and  shade  the  laws 

No  forest  skeptic  taught  ; 
Their  living  and  eternal  Cause 

His  truer  instinct  sought. 

He  saw  these  mountains  in  the  light 

Which  now  across  them  shines  ; 
This  lake,  in  summer  sunset  bright, 

Walled  round  with  sombering  pines. 
God   near  him   seemed  ;  from    earth   and 
skies 

His  loving  voice  he  heard, 
As,  face  to  face,  in  Paradise, 

Man  stood  before  the  Lord. 

Thanks,  O  our  Father  !  that,  like  him, 

Thy  tender  love  I  see, 
In  radiant  hill  and  woodland  dim, 


And  tinted  sunset  sea. 
For  not  in  mockery  dost  Thou  fill 

Our  earth  with  light  and  grace  ; 
Thou  hid'st  no  dark  and  cruel  will 

Behind  Thy  smiling  face  ! 


AUTUMN    THOUGHTS 

GONE  hath  the  Spring,  with  all  its  flowers. 

And    gone    the    Summer's    pomp    and 

show, 
And  Autumn,  in  his  leafless  bowers, 

Is  waiting  for  the  Winter's  snow. 

I  said  to  Earth,  so  cold  and  gray, 
"  An  emblem  of  myself  thou  art." 

"  Not  so,"  the  Earth  did  seem  to  say, 
"  For    Spring    shall    warm    my    frozer 
heart." 

I  soothe  my  wintry  sleep  with  dreams 
Of  warmer  sun  and  softer  rain, 

And  wait  to  hear  the  sound  of  streams 
And  songs  of  merry  birds  again. 

But   thou,  from   whom    the    Spring    hat! 
gone, 

For  whom  the  flowers  no  longer  blow, 
Who  standest  blighted  and  forlorn, 

Like  Autumn  waiting  for  the  snow  ; 

No  hope  is  thine  of  sunnier  hours, 
Thy  Winter  shall  no  more  depart  ; 

No  Spring  revive  thy  wasted  flowers, 
Nor  Summer  warm  thy  frozen  heart. 


ON      RECEIVING      AN      EAGLE'S 
QUILL  FROM  LAKE  SUPERIOR 

ALL  day  the  darkness  and  the  cold 

Upon  my  heart  have  lain, 
Like  shadows  on  the  winter  sky, 

Like  frost  upon  the  pane  ; 

But  now  my  torpid  fancy  wakes, 
And,  on  thy  Eagle's  plume, 

Rides  forth,  like  Sindbad  on  his  bird, 
Or  witch  upon  her  broom  ! 

Below  me  roar  the  rocking  pines, 
Before  me  spreads  the  lake 

Whose  long  and  solemn-sounding  'vav^s 
Against  the  sunset  break. 


APRIL 


I  hear  the  wild  Rice-Eater  thresh 

The  grain  he  has  not  sown  ; 
I  see,  with  flashing  scythe  of  fire, 

The  prairie  harvest  mown  ! 

I  hear  the  far-off  voyager's  horn ; 

I  see  the  Yankee's  trail,  — 
His  foot  on  every  mountain-pass, 

On  every  stream  his  sail. 

By  forest,  lake,  and  waterfall, 

I  see  his  pedler  show  ; 
The  mighty  mingling  with  the  mean, 

The  lofty  with  the  low. 

He  's  whittling  by  St.  Mary's  Falls, 

Upon  his  loaded  wain  ; 
He  's  measuring  o'er  the  Pictured  Rocks, 

With  eager  eyes  of  gain. 

I  hear  the  mattock  in  the  mine, 

The  axe-stroke  in  the  dell, 
The  clamor  from  the  Indian  lodge, 

The  Jesuit  chapel  bell  ! 

I  see  the  swarthy  trappers  come 

From  Mississippi's  springs  ; 
And  war-chiefs  with  their  painted  brows, 

And  crests  of  eagle  wings. 

Behind  the  scared  squaw's  birch  canoe, 
The  steamer  smokes  and  raves  ; 

Arid  city  lots  are  staked  for  sale 
Above  old  Indian  graves. 

I  hear  the  tread  of  pioneers 

Of  nations  yet  to  be  ; 
The  first  low  wash  of  waves,  where  soon 

Shall  roll  a  human  sea. 

The  rudiments  of  empire  here 

Are  plastic  yet  and  warm  ; 
The  chaos  of  a  mighty  world 

Is  rounding  into  form  ! 

Each  rude  and  jostling  fragment  soon 
Its  fitting  place  shall  find,  — 

The  raw  material  of  a  State, 
Its  muscle  and  its  mind  ! 

And,  westering  still,  the  star  which  leads 

The  New  World  in  its  train 
Has  tipped  with  fire  the  icy  spears 

Of  many  a  mountain  chain. 


The  snowy  cones  of  Oregon 

Are  kindling  on  its  way  ; 
And  California's  golden  sands 

Gleam  brighter  in  its  ray  ! 

Then  blessings  on  thy  eagle  quill, 

As,  wandering  far  and  wide, 
I  thank  thee  for  this  twilight  dream 

And  Fancy's  airy  ride  ! 

Yet,  welcomer  than  regal  plumes, 

Which  Western  trappers  find, 
Thy   free   and   pleasant    thoughts,  chance 
sown, 

Like  feathers  on  the  wind. 

Thy  symbol  be  the  mountain-bird, 
Whose  glistening  quill  I  hold  ; 

Thy  home  the  ample  air  of  hope, 
And  memory's  sunset  gold  ! 

In  thee,  let  joy  with  duty  join, 

And  strength  unite  with  love, 
The  eagle's  pinions  folding  round 

The  warm  heart  of  the  dove  ! 

So,  when  in  darkness  sleeps  the  vale 
Where  still  the  blind  bird  clings, 

The  sunshine  of  the  upper  sky 
Shall  glitter  on  thy  wings  ! 

APRIL 

"  The  spring1  comes  slowly  up  this  way." 

ChriatabeL 

'TiS  the  noon  of  the  spring-time,  yet  never 

a  bird 
In  the  wind-shaken  elm  or   the  maple    is 

heard  ; 
For  green  meadow-grasses  wide  levels  of 

snow, 
And   blowing  of   drifts  where    the    crocus 

should  blow  ; 
Where  wind-flower  and  violet,  amber  and 

white, 
On  south-sloping   brooksides  should  smile 

in  the  light, 

O'er   the    cold    winter-beds   of   their  late- 
waking  roots 
The    frosty   flake    eddies,   the    ice-crystal 

shoots ; 
And,  longing  for  light,  under  wind-driven 

heaps, 


146 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 


Round    the   boles   of    the   pine-wood   the 

ground-laurel  creeps, 
Unkissed    of   the   sunshine,  unbaptized   of 

showers, 
With  buds  scarcely  swelled,  which  should 

burst  into  flowers  ! 
We  wait  for  thy  coming,  sweet  wind  of  the 

south  ! 
For  the  touch  of  thy  light  wings,  the  kiss 

of  thy  mouth  ; 
For  the  yearly  evangel  thou  bearest  from 

God, 
Resurrection  and  life  to  the  graves  of  the 

sod  ! 
Up  our  long  river-valley,  for  days,  have  not 

ceased 

The  wail  and  the  shriek  of  the  bitter  north 
east, 
Raw  and  chill,  as  if  winnowed  through  ices 

and  snow, 

All  the  way  from  the  land  of  the  wild  Es 
quimau, 

Until  all  our  dreams  of  the  land  of  the  blest, 
Like  that  red  hunter's,  turn  to  the  sunny 

southwest. 
O  soul  of  the  spring-time,  its  light  and  its 

breath, 
Bring  warmth  to  this  coldness,  bring  life  to 

this  death  ; 

Renew  the  great  miracle  ;  let  us  behold 
The  stone  from  the  mouth  of  the  sepulchre 

rolled, 

And  Nature,  like  Lazarus,  rise,  as  of  old  ! 
Let  our  faith,  which  in  darkness  and  cold 
ness  has  lain, 
Revive  with  the  warmth  and  the  brightness 

again, 
And  in  blooming  of  flower  and  budding  of 

tree 

The  symbols  and  types  of  our  destiny  see  ; 
The  life  of  the  spring-time,  the  life  of  the 

whole, 
And,  as  sun  to  the  sleeping  earth,  love  to 

the  soul  ! 

PICTURES 
I 

LIGHT,  warmth,  and  sprouting  greenness, 

and  o'er  all 
Blue,  stainless,  steel-bright  ether,  raining 

down 

Tranquillity  upon  the  deep-hushed  town, 
The  freshening  meadows,  and  the    hill 
sides  brown  ; 


Voice  of  the  west-wind  from  the  hills 

of  pine, 

And  the  brimmed  river  from  its  distant  fall, 
Low  hum  of  bees,  and  joyous  interlude 
Of  bird-songs  in  the  streamlet-skirting 

wood,  — 
Heralds  and   prophecies  of    sound    and 

sight, 
Blessed  forerunners  of  the  warmth  and 

light, 

Attendant  angels  to  the  house  of  prayer, 
With  reverent  footsteps  keeping  pace 

with  mine,  — 
Once  more,  through  God's  great  love,  with 

you  I  share 
A  morn  of  resurrection  sweet  and  fair 

As  that  which  saw,  of  old,  in  Palestine, 
Immortal  Love  uprising  in  fresh  bloom 
From  the  dark  night  and  winter  of  the 
tomb  ! 


White  with  its  sun-bleached  dust,  the  path 
way  winds 

Before  me  ;  dust  is  on  the  shrunken  grass, 
And  on  the  trees  beneath  whose  boughs 

I  pass  ; 
Frail  screen  against  the  Hunter  of  the 

sky, 

Who,  glaring  on  me  with  his  lidless  eye, 
While  mounting  with  his  dog-star  high 

and  higher 
Ambushed  in  light  intolerable,  unbinds 

The  burnished  quiver  of  his  shafts  of 

fire. 
Between  me  and  the    hot  fields    of   his 

South 

A   tremulous  glow,  as  from  a  furnace- 
mouth, 
Glimmers  and  swims  before  my  dazzled 

sight, 

As  if  the  burning  arrows  of  his  ire 
Broke  as  they  fell,  and  shattered    into 

light  ; 

Yet  on  my  cheek  I  feel  the  western  wind, 
And  hear  it  telling  to  the  orchard  trees, 
And  to  the  faint  and  flower-forsaken  bees, 
Tales  of  fair  meadows,  green  with  con 
stant  streams, 

And  mountains  rising  blue  and  cool  behind, 
Where  in  moist  dells  the  purple  orcnis 

gleams, 
And  starred  with  white  the  virgin's  bowel 

is  twined. 
So  the  o'erwearied  pilgrim,  as  he  fares 


SUMMER   BY  THE   LAKESIDE 


'47 


Along  life's  summer  waste,  at  times  is 

fanned, 

Even  at  noontide,  by  the  cool,  sweet  airs 
Of  a  serener  and  a  holier  land, 
Fresh  as  the  morn,  and  as  the  dewfall 

bland. 
Breath  of  the  blessed  Heaven  for  which 

we  pray, 

Blow  from  the  eternal  hills  !    make  glad 
our  earthly  way  ! 


SUMMER  BY  THE  LAKESIDE 

LAKE   WINNIPESAUKEE 
I.   NOON 

WHITE  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt    the 

deep, 

Light  mists,  whose  soft  embraces  keep 
The  sunshine  on  the  hills  asleep  ! 

O  isles  of  calm  !  O  dark,  still  wood  ! 
And  stiller  skies  that  overbrood 
Your  rest  with  deeper  quietude  ! 

0  shapes  and  hues,  dim  beckoning,  through 
Yon  mountain  gaps,  my  longing  view 
Beyond  the  purple  and  the  blue, 

To  stiller  sea  and  greener  land, 

And  softer  lights  and  airs  more  bland, 

And  skies,  —  the  hollow  of  God's  hand  ! 

Transfused    through     you,    O     mountain 

friends  ! 

With  mine  your  solemn  spirit  blends, 
And  life  no  more  hath  separate  ends. 

1  read  each  misty  mountain  sign, 

I  know  the  voice  of  wave  and  pine, 
And  I  am  yours,  and  ye  are  mine. 

Life's  burdens  fall,  its  discords  cease, 

I  lapse  into  the  glad  release 

Of  Nature's  own  exceeding  peace. 

O  welcome  calm  of  heart  and  mind  ! 
As  falls  yon  fir-tree's  loosened  rind 
To  leave  a  tenderer  growth  behind, 

So  fall  the  weary  years  away  ; 
A  child  again,  my  head  I  lay 
Upon  the  lap  of  this  sweet  day. 


This  western  wind  hath  Lethean  powers, 
Yon  noonday  cloud  nepenthe  showers, 
The  lake  is  white  with  lotus-flowers  ! 

Even  Duty's  voice  is  faint  and  low, 

And  slumberous  Conscience,  waking  slow, 

Forgets  her  blotted  scroll  to  show. 

The  Shadow  which  pursues  us  all, 
Whose  ever-nearing  steps  appall, 
Whose  voice  we  hear  behind  us  call,  — 

That  Shadow  blends  with  mountain  gray, 
It  speaks  but  what  the  light  waves  say,  — 
Death  walks  apart  from  Fear  to-day  ! 

Rocked  on  her  breast,  these  pines  and  I 
Alike  on  Nature's  love  rely  ; 
And  equal  seems  to  live  or  die. 

Assured  that  He  whose  presence  fills 
With  light  the  spaces  of  these  hills 
No  evil  to  His  creatures  wills, 

The  simple  faith  remains,  that  He 
Will  do,  whatever  that  may  be, 
The  best  alike  for  man  and  tree. 

What  mosses  over  one  shall  grow, 
What  light  and  life  the  other  know, 
Unanxious,  leaving  Him  to  show. 

II.  EVENING 

Yon  mountain's  side  is  black  with  night, 
While,   broad-orbed,  o'er  its    gleaming 
crown 

The  moon,  slow-rounding  into  sight, 
On  the  hushed  inland  sea  looks  down. 

How  start  to  light  the  clustering  isles, 
Each     silver  -  hemmed  !     How    sharply 
show 

The  shadows  of  their  rocky  piles, 
And  tree-tops  in  the  wave  below  ! 

How  far  and  strange  the  mountains  seem, 
Dim-looming  through  the  pale,  still  light  ! 

The  vague,  vast  grouping  of  a  dream, 
They  stretch  into  the  solemn  night. 

Beneath,  lake,  wood,  and  peopled  vale, 
Hushed  by  that  presence  grand  and  grave, 

Are  silent,  save  the  cricket's  wail, 
And  low  response  of  leaf  and  wave. 


POEMS  OF   NATURE 


Fair  scenes  !  whereto  the  Day  and  Night 
Make  rival  love,  I  leave  ye  soon, 

What  time  before  the  eastern  light 
The  pale  ghost  of  the  setting  moon 

Shall  hide  behind  yon  rocky  spines, 

And  the  young  archer,  Morn,  shall  break 

His  arrows  on  the  mountain  pines, 

And,  golden-sandalled,  walk  the  lake  ! 

Farewell  !  around  this  smiling  bay 

Gay-hearted  Health,  and  Life  in  bloom, 

With  lighter  steps  than  mine,  may  stray 
In  radiant  summers  yet  to  come. 

But  none  shall  more  regretful  leave 
These  waters  and  these  hills  than  I : 

Or,  distant,  fonder  dream  how  eve 
Or  dawn  is  painting  wave  and  sky  ; 

How  rising  moons  shine  sad  and  mild 
On  wooded  isle  and  silvering  bay ; 

Or  setting  suns  beyond  the  piled 

And  purple  mountains  lead  the  day  ; 

Nor  laughing  girl,  nor  bearding  boy, 

Nor  full-pulsed  manhood,  lingering  here, 

Shall  add,  to  life's  abounding  joy, 

The  charmed  repose  to  suffering  dear. 

Still  waits  kind  Nature  to  impart 
Her  choicest  gifts  to  such  as  gain 

An  entrance  to  her  loving  heart 

Through  the  sharp  discipline  of  pain. 

Forever  from  the  Hand  that  takes 
One  blessing  from  us  others  fall  ; 

And,  soon  or  late,  our  Father  makes 
His  perfect  recompense  to  all ! 

Oh,  watched  by  Silence  and  the  Night, 
And  folded  in  the  strong  embrace 

Of  the  great  mountains,  with  the  light 
Of  the  sweet  heavens  upon  thy  face, 

Lake  of  the  Northland  !  keep  thy  dower 
Of  beauty  still,  and  while  above 

Thy  solemn  mountains  speak  of  power, 
Be  thou  the  mirror  of  God's  love. 


THE   FRUIT-GIFT 

LAST  night,  just  as  the  tints  of  autumn's  sky 
Of    sunset    faded    from    our    hills    and 
streams, 


I  sat,  vague  listening,  lapped  in  twilight 

dreams, 

To  the  leaf's  rustle,  and  the  cricket's  cry. 
Then,  like  that  basket,  flush  with  summer 

fruit, 
Dropped   by  the   angels  at  the   Prophet's 

foot, 
Came,    unannounced,   a   gift  of   clustered 

sweetness, 
Full-orbed,  and  glowing  with  th  i  prisoned 

beams 

Of  summery  suns,  and  rounded  to  com 
pleteness 

By  kisses  of  the  south-wind  and  the  dew. 
Thrilled  with  a  glad  surprise,  meth ought  I 

knew 
The    pleasure    of    the    homeward-turning 

Jew, 
When  EshcoPs  clusters  on   his  shoulders 

lay, 
Dropping  their  sweetness  on  his  desert  way. 

I  said,  "  This  fruit  beseems  no  world  of 

sin. 

Its  parent  vine,  rooted  in  Paradise, 
O'ercrept  the  wall,  and  never  paid  the 

price 
Of   the  great  mischief,  —  an   ambrosial 

tree, 
Eden's  exotic,  somehow  smuggled  in, 

To  keep  the  thorns  and  thistles  company." 
Perchance  our  frail,  sad  mother  plucked  in 

haste 

A  single  vine-slip  as  she  passed  the  gate, 
Where   the   dread   sword   alternate    paled 

and  burned, 

And  the  stern  angel,  pitying  her  fate, 
Forgave  the  lovely  trespasser,  and  turned 
Aside  his  face  of  fire  ;  and  thus  the  waste 
And  fallen  world  hath  yet  its  annual  taste 
Of  primal  good,  to  prove  of  sin  the  cost, 
And  show  by  one  gleaned  ear  the  mightj 
harvest  lost. 


FLOWERS    IN    WINTER 

PAINTED   UPON   A    PORTE   LIVRE 

How  strange  to  greet,  this  frosty  morn, 
In  graceful  counterfeit  of  flowers, 

These  children  of  the  meadows,  born 
Of  sunshine  and  of  showers  ! 

How  well  the  conscious  wood  retains 
The  pictures  of  its  flower-sown  home. 


THE   MAYFLOWERS 


149 


The  lights  and  shades,  the  purple  stains, 
And  golden  hues  of  bloom  ! 

It  was  a  happy  thought  to  bring 
To  the  dark  season's  frost  and  rime 

This  painted  memory  of  spring, 
This  dream  of  summer-time. 

Our  hearts  are  lighter  for  its  sake, 
Our  fancy's  age  renews  its  youth, 

And  dim-remembered  fictions  take 
The  guise  of  present  truth. 

A  wizard  of  the  Merrimac,  — 
So  old  ancestral  legends  say,  — 

Could  call  green  leaf  and  blossom  back 
To  frosted  stem  and  spray. 

The  dry  logs  of  the  cottage  wall, 

Beneath  his  touch,  put  out  their  leaves  ; 

The  clay-bound  swallow,  at  his  call, 
Played  round  the  icy  eaves. 

The  settler  saw  his  oaken  flail 

Take  bud,  and  bloom  before  his  eyes  ; 

From  frozen  pools  he  saw  the  pale, 
Sweet  summer  lilies  rise. 

To  their  old  homes,  by  man  profaned, 
Came  the  sad  dryads,  exiled  long, 

And  through  their  leafy  tongues  complained 
Of  household  use  and  wrong. 

The  beechen  platter  sprouted  wild, 
The  pipkin  wore  its  old-time  green, 

The  cradle  o'er  the  sleeping  child 
Became  a  leafy  screen. 

Haply  our  gentle  friend  hath  met, 
While  wandering  in  her  sylvan  quest, 

Haunting  his  native  woodlands  yet, 
That  Druid  of  the  West ; 

And,  while  the  dew  on  leaf  and  flower 
Glistened  in  moonlight  clear  and  still, 

Learned  the  dusk  wizard's  spell  of  power, 
And  caught  his  trick  of  skill. 

But  welcome,  be  it  new  or  old, 

The  gift  which  makes  the  day  more  bright, 
And  paints,  upon  the  ground  of  cold 

And  darkness,  warmth  and  light  ! 

Without  is  neither  gold  nor  green  ; 
Within,  for  birds,  the  biroh-logs  sing  ; 


Yet,  summer-like,  we  sit  between 
The  autumn  and  the  spring. 

The  one,  with  bridal  blush  of  rose, 

And  sweetest  breath  of  woodland  balm, 

And  one  whose  matron  lips  unclose 
In  smiles  of  saintly  calm. 

Fill  soft  and  deep,  O  winter  snow  ! 

The  sweet  azalea's  oaken  dells, 
And  hide  the  bank  where  roses  blow, 

And  swing  the  azure  bells  ! 

O'erlay  the  amber  violet's  leaves, 
The  purple  aster's  brookside  home, 

Guard  all  the  flowers  her  pencil  gives 
A  life  beyond  their  bloom. 

And  she,  when  spring  comes  round  again, 
By  greening  slope  and  singing  flood 

Shall  wander,  seeking,  not  in  vain, 
Her  darlings  of  the  wood. 


THE    MAYFLOWERS 

The  trailing1  arbutus,  or  mayflower, 
abundantly  in  the  vicinity  of  Plymouth,  and 
was  the  first  flower  that  greeted  the  Pilgrims 
after  their  fearful  •winter.  The  name  mayflower 
was  familiar  in  England,  as  the  application  of 
it  to  the  historic  vessel  shows,  but  it  was  applied 
by  the  English,  and  still  is,  to  the  hawthorn. 
Its  use  in  New  England  in  connection  with 
Epigwa  repens  dates  from  a  very  early  day, 
some  claiming-  that  the  first  Pilgrims  so  used 
it,  in  affectionate  memory  of  the  vessel  and  its 
English  flower  association. 

SAD  Mayflower  !  watched  by  winter  stars> 

And  nursed  by  winter  gales, 
With  petals  of  the  sleeted  spars, 

And  leaves  of  frozen  sails  ! 

What  had  she  in  those  dreary  hours, 

Within  her  ice-rimmed  bay, 
In  common  with  the  wild-wood  flowers, 

The  first  sweet  smiles  of  May  ? 

Yet,  "  God  be  praised  !  "  the  Pilgrim  said, 

Who  saw  the  blossoms  peer 
Above  the  brown  leaves,  dry  and  dead, 

"  Behold  our  Mayflower  here  !  " 

"  God  wills  it  :  here  our  rest  shall  be, 
Our  years  of  wandering  o'er  ; 


'5° 


POEMS   OF  NATURE 


For  us  the  Mayflower  of  the  sea 
Shall  spread  her  sails  no  more." 

O  sacred  flowers  of  faith  and  hope, 

As  sweetly  now  as  then 
Ye  bloom  on  many  a  birchen  slope, 

In  many  a  pine-dark  glen. 

Behind  the  sea-wall's  rugged  length, 
Unchanged,  your  leaves  unfold, 

Like  love  behind  the  manly  strength 
Of  the  brave  hearts  of  old. 

So  live  the  fathers  in  their  sons, 

Their  sturdy  faith  be  ours, 
And  ours  the  love  that  overruns 

Its  rocky  strength  with  flowers. 

The  Pilgrim's  wild  and  wintry  day 

Its  shadow  round  us  draws  ; 
The  Mayflower  of  his  stormy  bay, 

Our  Freedom's  struggling  cause. 

But  warmer  suns  erelong  shall  bring 

To  life  the  frozen  sod  ; 
And  through    dead  leaves    of    hope    shall 
spring 

Afresh  the  flowers  of  God  ! 


THE   LAST   WALK   IN   AUTUMN 


O'ER  the  bare  woods,  whose  outstretched 

hands 

Plead  with  the  leaden  heavens  in  vain, 
I  see,  beyond  the  valley  lands, 

The  sea's  long  level  dim  with  rain. 
Around  me  all  things,  stark  and  dumb, 
Seem  praying  for  the  snows  to  come, 
And,  for  the  summer  bloom  and  greenness 

gone, 

With  winter's  sunset  lights  and  dazzling 
morn  atone. 


Along  the  river's  summer  walk, 

The  withered  tufts  of  asters  nod  ; 
And  trembles  on  its  arid  stalk 

The  hoar  plume  of  the  golden-rod. 
And  on  a  ground  of  sombre  fir, 
And  azure-studded  juniper, 
The  silver  birch  its  buds  of  purple  shows, 
And  scarlet  berries  tell  where  bloomed  the 
sweet  wild-rose  ! 


ill 


With  mingled  sound  of  horns  and  bells, 
A  far-heard  clang,  the  wild  geese  fly, 

Storm-sent,  from  Arctic  moors  and  fells 
Like  a  great  arrow  through  the  sky, 

Two  dusky  lines  converged  in  one, 

Chasing  the  southward-flying  sun  ; 
While  the  brave  snow-bird  and  the  hardy 

Jav 

Call  to  them  from  the  pines,  as  if  to  bid 
them  stay. 

IV 

I  passed  this  way  a  year  ago  : 

The  wind  blew  south  ;  the  noon  of  day 
Was  warm  as  June's  ;  and  save  that  snow 
Flecked  the  low  mountains  far  away, 
And  that  the  vernal-seeming  breeze 
Mocked  faded  grass  and  leafless  trees, 
I  might  have  dreamed  of  summer  as  I  lay, 
Watching  the  fallen  leaves  with  the  soft 
wind  at  play. 


Since  then,  the  winter  blasts  have  piled 

The  white  pagodas  of  the  snow 
On  these  rough  slopes,  and,  strong  and 

wild, 

Yon  river,  in  its  overflow 
Of  spring-time  rain  and  sun,  set  free, 
Crashed  with  its  ices  to  the  sea  ; 
And  over  these  gray  fields,  then  green  and 

gold, 

The  summer  corn  has  waved,  the  thunder's 
organ  rolled. 

VI 

Rich  gift  of  God  !     A  year  of  time  ! 

What  pomp  of  rise  and  shut  of  day, 
What  hues  wherewith  our  Northern  clime 

Makes  autumn's  dropping  woodlands 

ga)r» 

What  airs  outblown  from  ferny  dells, 
And  clover-bloom  and  sweetbrier  smells, 
What  songs  of  brooks  and  birds,  what  fruits 

and  flowers, 

Green  woods  and   moonlit  snows,  have  in 
its  round  been  ours  ! 

VII 

I  know  not  how,  in  other  lands, 

The  changing  seasons  come  and  go  ; 

What  splendors  fall  on  Syrian  sands, 
What  purple  lights  on  Alpine  snow  ! 


THE   LAST   WALK   IN   AUTUMN 


Nor  how  the  pomp  of  sunrise  waits 
On  Venice  at  her  watery  gates  ; 
A  dream  alone  to  me  is  Arno's  vale, 
And  the  Alhambra's  halls  are  but  a  travel 
ler's  tale. 

VIII 

Yet,  on  life's  current,  he  who  drifts 

Is  one  with  him  who  rows  or  sails  ; 
And  he  who  wanders  widest  lifts 

No  more  of  beauty's  jealous  veils 
Than  he  who  from  his  doorway  sees 
The  miracle  of  ilowers  and  trees, 
Feels  the  warm  Orient  in  the  noonday  air, 
And  from  cloud  minarets  hears  the  sunset 
call  to  prayer  ! 


The  eye  may  well  be  glad  that  looks 
Where  Pharpar's  fountains   rise  and 

fall; 
But  he  who  sees  his  native  brooks 

Laugh  in  the  sun,  has  seen  them  all. 
The  marble  palaces  of  Ind 
Rise  round  him  in  the  snow  and  wind  ; 
From  his  lone  sweetbrier    Persian    Hafiz 

smiles, 

And  Rome's  cathedral  awe  is  in  his  wood 
land  aisles. 


And  thus  it  is  my  fancy  blends 

The  near  at  hand  and  far  arid  rare  ; 
And  while  the  same  horizon  bends 
Above  the  silver-sprinkled  hair 
Which  flashed  the  light  of  morning  skies 
On  childhood's  wonder-lifted  eyes, 
Within  its  round  of  sea  and  sky  and  field, 
Earth  wheels  with  all  her  zones,  the  Kosmos 
stands  revealed. 

XI 

And  thus  the  sick  man  on  his  bed, 

The  toiler  to  his  task-work  bound, 
Behold  their  prison-walls  outspread, 

Their  clipped  horizon  widen  round  ! 
While  freedom-giving  fancy  waits, 
Like  Peter's  angel  at  the  gates, 
The  power  is  theirs  to  baffle  care  and  pain, 
To  bring  the  lost  world  back,  and  make  it 
theirs  again  ! 

XII 

What  lack  of  goodly  company, 
When  masters  of  the  ancient  lyre 


Obey  my  call,  and  trace  for  me 

Their  words  of  mingled  tears  and  fire  1 
I  talk  with  Bacon,  grave  and  wise, 
I  read  the  world  with  Pascal's  eyes  ; 
And  priest  and   sage,  with  solemn  brows 

austere, 

And  poets,   garland-bound,   the   Lords    of 
Thought,  draw  near. 

XIII 

Methinks,  O  friend,  I  hear  thee  say, 

"  In  vain  the  human  heart  we  mock  ; 
Bring  living  guests  who  love  the  day, 
Not  ghosts  who  fly  at  crow  of  cock  ! 
The  herbs  we  share  with  flesh  and  blood 
Are  better  than  ambrosial  food 
With  laurelled  shades."     I  grant  it,  nothing 

loath, 

But  doubly  blest  is  he  who  can  partake  of 
both. 


He  who  might  Plato's  banquet  grace, 

Have  I  not  seen  before  me  sit, 
And  watched  his  puritanic  face, 

With  more  than  Eastern  wisdom  lit  ? 
Shrewd  mystic  !  who,  upon  the  back 
Of  his  Poor  Richard's  Almanac 
Writing  the  Sufi's  song,  the  Gentoo's  dream, 
Links  Manu's  age  of  thought  to  Fulton's 
age  of  steam  ! 

XV 

Here  too,  of  answering  love  secure, 

Have  I  not  welcomed  to  my  hearth 
The  gentle  pilgrim  troubadour, 

Whose   songs   have  girdled  half   the 

earth  ; 

Whose  pages,  like  the  magic  mat 
Whereon  the  Eastern  lover  sat, 
Have  borne  me  over  Rhine-land's  purple 

vines, 

And  Nubia's  tawny  sands,   and  Phrygia's 
mountain  pines  ! 

XVI 

And  he,  who  to  the  lettered  wealth 

Of  ages  adds  the  lore  unpriced, 
The  wisdom  and  the  moral  health, 

The  ethics  of  the  school  of  Christ ; 
The  statesman  to  his  holy  trust, 
As  the  Athenian  archon,  just, 
Struck  down,  exiled  like  him  for  truth  alone, 
Has  he  not  graced  my  home  with  beauty 
all  his  own  ? 


152 


POEMS  OF   NATURE 


XVII 

What   greetings    smile,    what   farewells 

wave, 

What  loved  ones  enter  and  depart  ! 
The  good,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 
The     Heaven-lent    treasures    of     the 

heart  ! 

How  conscious  seems  the  frozen  sod 
And  beecheii  slope  whereon  they  trod  ! 
The  oak-leaves  rustle,  and  the  dry  grass 

bends 

Beneath  the  shadowy  feet  of  lost  or  absent 
friends. 

XVIII 

Then  ask  not  why  to  these  bleak  hills 

I  cling,  as  clings  the  tufted  moss, 
To  bear  the  winter's  lingering  chills, 

The  mocking  spring's  perpetual  loss. 
I  dream  of  lands  where  summer  smiles, 
And  soft  winds  blow  from  spicy  isles, 
But  scarce  would  Ceylon's  breath  of  flow 
ers  be  sweet, 

Could  I  not  feel  thy  soil,  New  England,  at 
my  feet  ! 

XIX 

At  times  I  long  for  gentler  skies, 

And  bathe  in  dreams  of  softer  air, 
But  homesick  tears  would  fill  the  eyes 

That  saw  the  Cross  without  the  Bear. 
The  pine  must  whisper  to  the  palm, 
The  north-wind  break  the  tropic  calm  ; 
And  with  the  dreamy  languor  of  the  Line, 
The  North's  keen  virtue  blend,  and  strength 
to  beauty  join. 


XX 


Better  to  stem  with  heart  and  hand 
The  roaring  tide  of  life,  than  lie, 
Unmindful,  on  its  flowery  strand, 
Of  God's  occasions  drifting  by  ! 
Better  with  naked  nerve  to  bear 
The  needles  of  this  goading  air, 
Than,  in  the  lap  of  sensual  ease,  forego 
The  godlike  power  to  do,  the  godlike  aim 
to  know. 

XXI 

Home  of  my  heart  !  to  me  more  fair 
Than  gay  Versailles  or  Windsor's  halls, 

The  painted,  shingly  town-house  where 
The  freeman's  vote  for  Freedom  falls  ! 


The  simple  roof  where  prayer  is  made, 
Than  Gothic  groin  and  colonnade  ; 
The  living  temple  of  the  heart  of  man, 
Than  Rome's  sky-mocking  vault,  or  many* 
spired  Milan  ! 

XXII 

More  dear  thy  equal  village  schools, 

W^here  rich  and  poor  the  Bible  read, 
Than  classic  halls  where  Priestcraft  rule&> 
And   Learning   wears   the    chains    oi 

Creed  ; 

Thy  glad  Thanksgiving,  gathering  in 
The  scattered  sheaves  of  home  and  kin, 
Than   the    mad   license    ushering    Lentea 

pains, 

Or  holidays  of  slaves  who  laugh  and  dance 
in  chains. 

xxin 

And  sweet  homes  nestle  in  these  dales, 

And  perch  along  these  wooded  swells  ; 
And,  blest  beyond  Arcadian  vales, 

They  hear  the  sound  of  Sabbath  bells  ! 
Here  dwells  no  perfect  man  sublime, 
Nor  woman  winged  before  her  time, 
But  with  the  faults  and  follies  of  the  race, 
Old  home-bred  virtues  hold  their  not  un- 
honored  place. 

XXIV 

Here  manhood  struggles  for  the  sake 

Of  mother,  sister,  daughter,  wife, 
The  graces  and  the  loves  which  make 

The  music  of  the  march  of  life  ; 
And  woman,  in  her  daily  round 
Of  duty,  walks  on  holy  ground. 
No  unpaid  menial  tills  the  soil,  nor  here 
Is  the  bad  lesson  learned  at  human  rights 
to  sneer. 

XXV 

Then  let  the  icy  north-wind  blow 
The  trumpets  of  the  coming  storm, 

To  arrowy  sleet  and  blinding  snow 
Yon  slanting  lines  of  rain  transform. 

Young  hearts  shall  hail  the  drifted  cold, 


And 


As  gayly  as  I  did  of  old  ; 

I,  who  watch  them  through  the  frosty 


pane, 


Unenvious,  live  in  them  my  boyhood  o'er 
again. 


THE  OLD   BURYING-GROUND 


153 


XXVI 

And  I  will  trust  that  He  who  heeds 

The  life  that  hides  in  mead  and  wold, 
Who  hangs  yon  alder's  crimson  beads, 

And  stains  these  mosses  green  and  gold, 
Will  still,  as  He  hath  done,  incline 
His  gracious  care  to  me  and  mine  ; 
Grant  what  we  ask  aright,  from  wrong  debar, 
And,  as  the  earth  glows  dark,  make  brighter 
every  star  ! 

XXVII 

I  have  not  seen,  I  may  not  see, 

My  hopes  for  man  take  form  in  fact, 
But  God  will  give  the  victory 

In  due  time  ;  in  that  faith  I  act. 
And  he  who  sees  the  future  sure, 
The  baffling  present  may  endure, 
And  bless,  meanwhile,    the   unseen  Hand 

that  leads 

The  heart's  desires  beyond  the  halting  step 
of  deeds. 


And  thou,  my  song,  I  send  thee  forth, 
Where   harsher    songs   of  mine    have 

flown  ; 
Go,  find  a  place  at  home  and  hearth 

Where'er  thy  singer's  name  is  known  ; 
Revive  for  him  the  kindly  thought 
Of    friends  ;    and    they    who    love    him 

not, 
Touched  by  some  strain  of  thine,  perchance 

may  take 

The  hand  he  proffers  all,  and  thank  him  for 
thy  sake. 


THE    FIRST    FLOWERS 

FOR  ages,  on  our  river  borders, 

These  tassels  in  their  tawny  bloom, 

And  willowy  studs  of  downy  silver, 
Have  prophesied  of  Spring  to  come. 

For  ages  have  the  unbound  waters 

Smiled  on  them  from  their  pebbly  hem, 

And  the  clear  carol  of  the  robin 

And  song  of  bluebird  welcomed  them. 

But  never  yet  from  smiling  river, 
Or  song  of  early  bird,  have  they 

Been  greeted  with  a  gladder  welcome 
Thau  whispers  from  my  heart  to-day. 


They  break  the  spell  of  cold  and  darkness, 
The  weary  watch  of  sleepless  pain  ; 

And  from  my  heart,  as  from  the  river, 
The  ice  of  winter  melts  again. 

Thanks,  Mary  !  for  this  wild-wood  token 
Of  Freya's  footsteps  drawing  near  ; 

Almost,  as  in  the  rune  of  Asgard, 
The  growing  of  the  grass  1  hear. 

It  is  as  if  the  pine-trees  called  me 
From  ceiled  room  and  silent  books, 

To  see  the  dance  of  woodland  shadows, 
And  hear  the  song  of  April  brooks  ! 

As  in  the  old  Teutonic  ballad 
Of  Odenwald  live  bird  and  tree, 

Together  live  in  bloom  and  music, 
I  blend  in  song  thy  flowers  and  thee. 

Earth's  rocky  tablets  bear  forever 

The  dint  of  rain  and  small  bird's  track  : 

Who  knows  but  that  my  idle  verses 
May  leave  some  trace  by  Merrimac  ! 

The  bird  that  trod  the  mellow  layers 
Of  the  young  earth  is  sought  in  vain  ; 

The  cloud  is  gone  that  wove  the  sandstone. 
From  God's  design,  with  threads  of  rain  ! 

So,  when  this  fluid  age  we  live  in 

Shall  stiffen  round  my  careless  rhyme, 

Who  made  the  vagrant  tracks  may  puzzle 
The  savants  of  the  coming  time  ; 

And,  following  out  their  dim  suggestions, 
Some  idly-curious  hand  may  draw 

My  doubtful  portraiture,  as  Cuvier 
Drew  fish  and  bird  from  fin  and  claw. 

And  maidens  in  the  far-off  twilights, 

Singing  my  words  to  breeze  and  streanij 

Shall  wonder  if  the  old-time  Mary 
Were  real,  or  the  rhymer's  dream  1 


THE    OLD    BURYING-GROUND 

OUR  vales  are  sweet  with  fern  and  rose, 
Our  hills  are  maple-crowned  ; 

But  not  from  them  our  fathers  chose 
The  village  burying-ground. 

The  dreariest  spot  in  all  the  land 
To  Death  they  set  apart  ; 


154 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 


With  scanty  grace  from  Nature's  hand, 
And  none  from  that  of  art. 

A  winding  wall  of  mossy  stone, 

Frost-Hung  and  broken,  lines 
A  lonesome  acre  thinly  grown 

With  grass  and  wandering  vines. 

Without  the  wall  a  birch-tree  shows 
Its  drooped  and  tasselled  head  ; 

Within,  a  stag-horn  sumach  grows, 
Fern-leafed,  with  spikes  of  red. 

There,  sheep  that  graze    the  neighboring 
plain 

Like  white  ghosts  come  and  go, 
The  farm-horse  drags  his  fetlock  chain, 

The  cow-bell  tinkles  slow. 

Low  moans  the  river  from  its  bed, 

The  distant  pines  reply  ; 
Like  mourners  shrinking  from  the  dead, 

They  stand  apart  and  sigh. 

Unshaded  smites  the  summer  sun, 

Unchecked  the  winter  blast  ; 
The  school-girl  learns  the  place  to  shun, 

With  glances  backward  cast. 

For  thus  our  fathers  testified, 

That  he  might  read  who  ran, 
The  emptiness  of  human  pride, 

The  nothingness  of  man. 

They  dared  not  plant  the  grave  with  flow 
ers, 

Nor  dress  the  funeral  sod, 
Where,  with  a  love  as  deep  as  ours, 

They  left  their  dead  with  God. 

The  hard  and  thorny  path  they  kept 

From  beauty  turned  aside  ; 
Nor  missed  they  over  those  who  slept 

The  grace  to  life  denied. 

Yet  still  the  wilding  flowers  would  blow, 

The  golden  leaves  would  fall, 
The  seasons  come,  the  seasons  go, 

And  God  be  good  to  all. 

Above  the  graves  the  blackberry  hung 
In  bloom  and  green  its  wreath, 


And  harebells  swung  as  if  they  rung 
The  chimes  of  peace  beneath. 

The  beauty  Nature  loves  to  share, 

The  gifts  she  hath  for  all, 
The  common  light,  the  common  air, 

O'ercrept  the  graveyard's  wall. 

It  knew  the  glow  of  eventide, 

The  sunrise  and  the  noon, 
And  glorified  and  sanctified 

It  slept  beneath  the  moon. 

With  flowers  or  snow-flakes  for  its  sod, 

Around  the  seasons  ran, 
And  evermore  the  love  of  God 

Rebuked  the  fear  of  man. 

We  dwell  with  fears  on  either  hand 

Within  a  daily  strife, 
And  spectral  problems  waiting  stand 

Before  the  gates  of  life. 

The  doubts  we  vainly  seek  to  solve, 
The  truths  we  know,  are  one  ; 

The  known  and  nameless  stars  revolve 
Around  the  Central  Sun. 

And  if  we  reap  as  we  have  sown, 

And  take  the  dole  we  deal, 
The  law  of  pain  is  love  alone, 

The  wounding  is  to  heal. 

Unharmed  from  change  to  change  we  glide, 

We  fall  as  in  our  dreams  ; 
The  far-off  terror  at  our  side 

A  smiling  angel  seems. 

Secure  on  God's  all-tender  heart 

Alike  rest  great  and  small  ; 
Why  fear  to  lose  our  little  part, 

When  He  is  pledged  for  all  ? 

O  fearful  heart  and  troubled  brain  ! 

Take  hope  and  strength  from  this,  — 
That  Nature  never  hints  in  vain, 

Nor  prophesies  amiss. 

Her  wild  birds  sing  the  same  sweet  stave. 

Her  lights  and  airs  are  given 
Alike  to  playground  and  the  grave  ; 

And  over  both  is  Heaven. 


THE  RIVER   PATH 


155 


THE   PALM-TREE 

Is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm, 

On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  ? 

Or  is  it  a  ship  in  the  breezeless  calm  ? 

A  ship  whose  keel  is  of  palm  beneath, 
Whose    ribs   of   palm    have    a    palm-bark 

sheath, 
And  a  rudder  of  palm  it  steereth  with. 

Branches  of  palm  are  its  spars  and  rails, 
Fibres  of  palm  are  its  woven  sails, 
And  the  rope  is  of  palm  that  idly  trails  ! 

What  does  the  good  ship  bear  so  well  ? 
The  cocoa-nut  with  its  stony  shell, 
And  the  milky  sap  of  its  inner  cell. 

What  are  its  jars,  so  smooth  and  fine, 
But    hollowed    nuts,  filled   with   oil    and 

wine, 
And   the  cabbage    that   ripens   under   the 

Line  ? 

Who  smokes  his  nargileh,  cool  and  calm  ? 
The  master,  whose  cunning  and  skill  could 

charm 
Cargo  and  ship  from  the  bounteous  palm. 

In  the  cabin  he  sits  on  a  palm-mat  soft, 
From  a  beaker  of  palm  his  drink  is  quaffed, 
And  a   palm-thatch  shields   from  the  sun 
aloft  ! 

His  dress  is  woven  of  palmy  strands, 

And   he   holds  a  palm -leaf   scroll  in  his 

hands, 
Traced  with  the  Prophet's  wise  commands  ! 

The  turban  folded  about  his  head 

Was    daintily    wrought    of    the    palm-leaf 

braid, 
And  the  fan  that  cools  him  of  palm  was 

made. 

Of  threads  of  palm  was  the  carpet  spun 
Whereon  he  kneels  when  the  day  is  done, 
And  the  foreheads  of  Islam  are  bowed  as 
one  ! 

To  him  the  palm  is  a  gift  divine, 
Wherein  all  uses  of  man  combine,  — 
House,  and  raiment,  and  food,  and  wine  I 


And,  in  the  hour  of  his  great  release, 
His  need  of  the  palm  shall  only  cease 
With  the  shroud  wherein  he  lieth  in  peace, 

"  Allah  il  Allah  ! "  he  sings  his  psalm, 
On  the  Indian  Sea,  by  the  isles  of  balm  ; 
"  Thanks  to  Allah  who  gives  the  palm  !  " 

THE    RIVER    PATH 

No  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill, 
The  tangled  bank  below  was  still ; 

No  rustle  from  the  birchen  stem, 
No  ripple  from  the  water's  hem. 

The  dusk  of  twilight  round  us  grew, 
We  felt  the  falling  of  the  dew  ; 

For,  from  us,  ere  the  day  was  done, 
The  wooded  hills  shut  out  the  sun. 

But  on  the  river's  farther  side 
We  saw  the  hill-tops  glorified, — 

A  tender  glow,  exceeding  fair, 
A  dream  of  day  without  its  glare. 

With  us  the  damp,  the  chill,  the  gloom  : 
With  them  the  sunset's  rosy  bloom  ; 

While  dark,  through  willowy  vistas  seen, 
The  river  rolled  in  shade  between. 

From  out  the  darkness  where  we  trod, 
W'e  gazed  upon  those  hills  of  God, 

Whose  light  seemed  not  of  moon  or  sun. 
We  spake  not,  but  our  thought  was  one. 

We  paused,  as  if  from  that  bright  shore 
Beckoned  our  dear  ones  gone  before  ; 

And  stilled  our  beating  hearts  to  hear 
The  voices  lost  to  mortal  ear  ! 

Sudden  our  pathway  turned  from  night ; 
The  hills  swung  open  to  the  light  ; 

Through   their   green    gates   the    sunshine 

showed, 
A  long,  slant  splendor  downward  flowed 

Down  glade  and  glen  and  bank  it  rolled  ; 
It  bridged  the  shaded  stream  with  gold  ; 


156 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 


And,  borne  on  piers  of  mist,  allied 
The  shadowy  with  the  sunlit  side  ! 

"So,"   prayed  we,  "when   our  feet  draw 

near 
The  river  dark,  with  mortal  fear, 

"  And  the  night  cometh  chill  with  dew, 
O  Father  !  let  Thy  light  break  through  ! 

"So  let  the  hills  of  doubt  divide, 

So  bridge  with  faith  the  sunless  tide  ! 

"  So  let  the  eyes  that  fail  on  earth 
On  Thy  eternal  hills  look  forth  ; 

"  And  in  Thy  beckoning  angels  know 
The  dear  ones  whom  we  loved  below  ! " 


MOUNTAIN    PICTURES 

I.  FRANCONIA  FROM   THE  PEMIGEWASSET 

ONCE  more,  O  Mountains  of  the  North,  un 
veil 
Your  brows,  and  lay  your  cloudy  mantles 

by  ! 
And  once  more,  ere  the  eyes  that  seek  ye 

fail, 

Uplift  against  the  blue  walls  of  the  sky 
Your  mighty  shapes,  and  let  the  sunshine 

weave 

Its  golden  net-work  in  your  belting  woods, 
Smile  down  in  rainbows  from  your  fall 
ing  floods, 

And  on  your  kingly  brows  at  morn  and  eve 
Set  crowns  of   fire  !     So  shall   my  soul 

receive 

Haply  the  secret  of  your  calm  and  strength, 
Your  unfovgotten  beauty  interfuse 
My  common  life,  your  glorious  shapes  and 

hues 
And  sun-dropued  splendors  at  my  bidding 

come, 
Loom  vast  Chi'ough  dreams,  and  stretch 

in  billowy  length 
From  the  sea-level  of  my  lowland  home  ! 

They  rise  before  me  !  Last  night's  thun 
der-gust 

Roared  not  in  vain  :  for  where  its  light 
nings  thrust 

Their  tongues  of  fire,  the  preat  peaks  seem 
so  near, 


Burned  clean  of  mist,  so  starkly  bold  and 

clear, 

I  almost  pause  the  wind  in  the  pines  to  hear, 
The  loose  rock's  fall,  the  steps  of  browsing 

deer. 
The  clouds  that  shattered  on  yon  slide-worn 

walls 
And  splintered  on  the  rocks  their  spears 

of  rain 

Have  set  in  play  a  thousand  waterfalls, 
Making  the  dusk  and  silence  of  the  woods 
Glad  with  the  laughter  of  the  chasing  floods, 
And  luminous  with  blown  spray  and  silver 

gleams, 
While,  in  the  vales  below,  the  dry-lipped 

streams 
Sing    to    the    freshened    meadow-lands 

again. 

So,  let  me  hope,  the  battle-storm  that  beats 
The  land  with  hail  and  fire  may  pass  away 
With  its  spent  thunders  at  the  break  of 

day, 
Like  last  night's  clouds,   and  leave,  as  it 

retreats, 

A  greener  earth  and  fairer  sky  behind, 
Blown  crystal  clear  by  Freedom's  North 
ern  wind  ! 

II.    MOXADXOCK   FROM    WACHUSET 

I  would  I  were  a  painter,  for  the  sake 
Of  a  sweet  picture,  and  of  her  who  led, 
A  fitting  guide,  with  reverential  tread, 
Into  that  mountain  mystery.     First  a  lake 
Tinted  with  sunset  ;  next  the  wavy  lines 
Of   far  receding  hills  ;  and  yet  more 

far, 

Monadnock  lifting  from  his  night  of  pines 
rjis  rosy  forehead  to  the  evening  star. 
Beside  us,  purple-zoned,  Wachuset  laid 
His    head  against  the  West,  whose  warm 

light  made 
His  aureole  ;   and  o'er  him,  sharp  and 

clear, 
Like  a  shaft  of  lightning  in  mid-launching 

stayed, 

A  single  level  cloud-line,  shone  upon 
By  the  fierce  glances  of  the  sunken  sun, 
Menaced  the  darkness  with  its  golden 
spear ! 

So  twilight  deepened  round  us.     Still  and 

black 
The  great  woods  climbed  the  mountain  at 

our  back  : 


THE  VANISHERS 


'57 


And  on  their  skirts,  where  yet  the  lingering 

day 

On  the  shorn  greenness  of  the  clearing  lay, 
The  brown  old  farm-house  like  a  bird's- 

nest  hung. 
With  home-life  sounds  the  desert  air  was 

stirred  : 
The    bleat    of    sheep    along    the    hill  we 

heard, 
The    bucket    plashing  in  the   cool,  sweet 

well, 
The  pasture  -  bars  that  clattered  as  they 

fell  ; 
Dogs  barked,  fowls  fluttered,  cattle  lowed  ; 

the  gate 

Of  the  barn-yard  creaked  beneath  the  mer 
ry  weight 
Of  sun-brown  children,  listening,  while 

they  swung, 
The  welcome  sound  of  supper-call  to 

hear  ; 
And  down  the  shadowy  lane,  in  tink- 

lings  clear, 

The  pastoral  curfew  of  the  cow-bell  rung. 
Thus  soothed  and  pleased,  our   backward 

path  we  took, 
Praising   the    farmer's   home.     He  only 

spake, 

Looking  into  the  sunset  o'er  the  lake, 
Like  one  to  whom  the  far-off  is  most 

near  : 
"  Yes,  most   folks  think  it  has  a  pleasant 

look  ; 

I  love  it  for  my  good  old  mother's  sake, 
Who  lived  and  died  here  in  the  peace 

of  God  !  " 
The  lesson  of   his    words  we    pondered 

o'er, 

As  silently  we  turned  the  eastern  flank 
Of  the  mountain,  where  its  shadow  deepest 

sank, 

Doubling  the  night  along  our  rugged  road  : 
We    felt    that    man    was    more   than   his 

abode,  — 
The  inward  life  than   Nature's  raiment 

more  ; 

And  the  warm  sky,  the  sundown-tinted  hill, 
The  forest  and  the  lake,  seemed  dwarfed 

and  dim 

Before  the  saintly  soul,  whose  human  will 
Meekly  in  the  Eternal  footsteps  trod, 
Making  her  homely  toil  and  household  ways 
An  earthly  echo  of  the  song  of  praise 
Swelling   from  angel  l?.ps  and   harps  of 
seraphim. 


THE   VANISHERS 

SWEETEST  of  all  childlike  dreams 

In  the  simple  Indian  lore 
Still  to  me  the  legend  seems 

Of  the  shapes  who  flit  before. 

Flitting,  passing,  seen  and  gone, 
Never  reached  nor  found  at  rest, 

Baffling  search,  but  beckoning  on 
To  the  Sunset  of  the  Blest. 

From  the  clefts  of  mountain  rocks, 
Through  the  dark  of  lowland  firs, 

Flash  the  eyes  and  flow  the  locks 
Of  the  mystic  Vanishers  ! 

And  the  fisher  in  his  skiff, 
And  the  hunter  on  the  moss, 

Hear  their  call  from  cape  and  cliff, 
See  their  hands  the  birch-leaves  toss. 

Wistful,  longing,  throiigh  the  green 
Twilight  of  the  clustered  pines, 

In  their  faces  rarely  seen 

Beauty  more  than  mortal  shines. 

Fringed  with  gold  their  mantles  flow 
On  the  slopes  of  westering  knolls  ; 

In  the  wind  they  whisper  low 
Of  the  Sunset  Land  of  Souls. 

Doubt  who  may,  O  friend  of  mine ! 

Thou  and  I  have  seen  them  too  ; 
On  before  with  beck  and  sign 

Still  they  glide,  and  we  pursue. 

More  than  clouds  of  purple  trail 

In  the  gold  of  setting  day  ; 
More  than  gleams  of  wing  or  sail 

Beckon  from  the  sea-mist  gray. 

Glimpses  of  immortal  youth, 

Gleams  and  glories  seen  and  flown, 

Far-heard  voices  sweet  with  truth, 
Airs  from  viewless  Eden  blown  ; 

Beauty  that  eludes  our  grasp, 

Sweetness  that  transcends  our  taste, 

Loving  hands  we  may  not  clasp, 
Shining  feet  that  mock  our  haste  ; 

Gentle  eyes  we  closed  below, 
Tender  voices  heard  once  more, 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 


Smile  and  call  us,  as  they  go 
On  and  onward,  still  before. 

Guided  thus,  O  friend  of  mine  ! 

Let  us  walk  our  little  way, 
Knowing  by  each  beckoning  sign 

That  we  are  not  quite  astray. 

Chase  we  still,  with  baffled  feet, 
Smiling  eye  and  waving  hand, 

Sought  and  seeker  soon  shall  meet, 
Lost  and  found,  iv  Sunset  Land  ! 


THE    PAGEANT 

A  SOUND  as  if  from  bells  of  silver, 
Or  elfin  cymbals  smitten  clear, 
Through    the    frost-pictured    panes   I 
hear. 

A  brightness  which  outshines  the  morning, 
A  splendor  brooking  no  delay, 
Beckons  and  tempts  my  feet  away. 

I  leave  the  trodden  village  highway 

For    virgin    snow -paths    glimmering 

through 
A  jewelled  elm-tree  avenue  ; 

Where,   keen    against    the   walls    of   sap 
phire, 

The  gleaming  tree-bolls,  ice-embossed, 
Hold  up  their  chandeliers  of  frost. 

I  tread  in  Orient  halls  enchanted, 

I  dream  the  Saga's  dream  of  caves 
Gem-lit  beneath  the  North  Sea  waves  ! 

I  walk  the  land  of  Eldorado, 

I  touch  its  mimic  garden  bowers, 

Its  silver  leaves  and  diamond  flowers  ! 

The  flora  of  the  mystic  mine-world 
Around  me  lifts  on  crystal  stems 
The  petals  of  its  clustered  gems  ! 

What  miracle  of  weird  transforming 

ID  this  wild  work  of  frost  and  light, 
This  glimpse  of  glory  infinite  1 

This  foregleam  of  the  Holy  City 

Like  that  to  him  of  Patmos  given, 
The  white    bride  coming   down    from 


How  flash  the  ranked  and  mail-clad  alders, 
Through  what  sharp-glancing  spears  of 

reeds 
The  brook  its  muffled  water  leads  ! 

Yon  maple,  like  the  bush  of  Horeb, 

Burns  unconsumed  :  a  white,  cold  fire 
Kays  out  from  every  grassy  spire. 

Each  slender  rush  and  spike  of  mullein, 
Low  laurel  shrub  and  drooping  fern, 
Transfigured,  blaze  where'er  1  turn. 

How  yonder  Ethiopian  hemlock 

Crowned    with   his   glistening    circlet 

stands  ! 
What  jewels  light  his  swarthy  hands  ! 

Here,  where  the  forest  opens  southward, 
Between  its  hospitable  pines, 
As  through  a  door,  the  warm  sun  shines. 

The  jewels  loosen  on  the  branches, 

And  lightly,  as  the  soft  winds  blow, 
Fall,  tinkling,  on  the  ice  below. 

And  through  the  clashing  of  their  cymbals 
I  hear  the  old  familiar  fall 
Of  water  down  the  rocky  wall, 

Where,  from  its  wintry  prison  breaking, 
In  dark  and  silence  hidden  long, 
The  brook  repeats  its  summer  song. 

One  instant  flashing  in  the  sunshine, 
Keen  as  a  sabre  from  its  sheath, 
Then  lost  again  the  ice  beneath. 

I  hear  the  rabbit  lightly  leaping, 

The  foolish  screaming  of  the  jay, 
The  chopper's  axe-stroke  far  away  ; 

The    clamor   of    some    neighboring  barn. 

yard, 

The  lazy  cock's  belated  crow, 
Or  cattle-tramp  in  crispy  snow. 

And,  as  in  some  enchanted  forest 

The   lost   knight  hears   his   comrades 

sing, 
And,  near  at  hand,  their  bridles  ring,  — • 

So  welcome  I  these  sounds  and  voices, 

These  airs  from  far-off  summer  blown, 
This  life  that  leaves  me  not  alone. 


A   MYSTERY 


'59 


For  the  white  glory  overawes  me  ; 
The  crystal  terror  of  the  seer 
Of  Chebar's  vision  blinds  me  here. 

.Rebuke  me  not,  O  sapphire  heaven  ! 
Thou  stainless  earth,  lay  not  on  me 
Thy  keen  reproach  of  purity, 

If,  in  this  august  presence-chamber, 

I  sigh  for  summer's  leaf-green  gloom 
And   warm    airs   thick   with   odorous 
bloom  ! 

Let  the  strange  frost-work  sink  and  crumble, 
And  let  the  loosened  tree-boughs  swing, 
Till  all  their  bells  of  silver  ring. 

Shine  warmly  down,  thou  sun  of  noontime, 
On  this  chill  pageant,  melt  and  move 
The  winter's  frozen  heart  with  love. 

And,  soft  and  low,  thou  wind  south-blowing, 
Breathe  through  a  veil  of  tenderest 

haze 
Thy  prophecy  of  summer  days. 

Come  with  thy  green  relief  of  promise, 
And  to  this  dead,  cold  splendor  bring 
The  living  jewels  of  the  spring ! 


THE  PRESSED  GENTIAN 

THE  time  of  gifts  has  come  again, 
And,  on  my  northern  window-pane, 
Outlined  against  the  day's  brief  light, 
A  Christmas  token  hangs  in  sight. 
The  wayside  travellers,  as  they  pass, 
Mark  the  gray  disk  of  clouded  glass  ; 
And  the  dull  blankness  seems,  perchance, 
Folly  to  their  wise  ignorance. 

They  cannot  from  their  outlook  see 
The  perfect  grace  it  hath  for  me  ; 
For  there  the  flower,  whose  fringes  through 
The  frosty  breath  of  autumn  blew, 
Turns  from  without  its  face  of  bloom 
To  the  warm  tropic  of  my  room, 
As  fair  as  when  beside  its  brook 
The  hue  of  bending  skies  it  took. 

So  from  the  trodden  ways  of  earth, 
Seem  some  sweet  souls  who  veil  their  worth, 
And  offer  to  the  careless  glance 
The  clouding  gray  of  circumstance. 


They  blossom  best  where  hearth-fires  burn, 
To  loving  eyes  alone  they  turn 
The  flowers  of  inward  grace,  that  hide 
Their  beauty  from  the  world  outside. 

But  deeper  meanings  come  to  me, 
My  half-immortal  flower,  from  thee  ! 
Man  judges  from  a  partial  view, 
None  ever  yet  his  brother  knew  ; 
The  Eternal  Eye  that  sees  the  whole 
May  better  read  the  darkened  soul, 
And  find,  to  outward  sense  denied, 
The  flower  upon  its  inmost  side  ! 

A   MYSTERY 

THE  river  hemmed  with  leaning  trees 
Wound  through  its  meadows  green  ; 

A  low,  blue  line  of  mountains  showed 
The  open  pines  between. 

One  sharp,  tall  peak  above  them  all 

Clear  into  sunlight  sprang  : 
I  saw  the  river  of  my  dreams, 

The  mountains  that  I  sang  ! 

No  clue  of  memory  led  me  on, 

But  well  the  ways  I  knew  ; 
A  feeling  of  familiar  things 

With  every  footstep  grew. 

Not  otherwise  above  its  crag 

Could  lean  the  blasted  pine  ; 
Not  otherwise  the  maple  hold 

Aloft  its  red  ensign. 

So  up  the  long  and  shorn  foot-hills 
The  mountain  road  should  creep  ; 

So,  green  and  low,  the  meadow  fold 
Its  red-haired  kine  asleep. 

The  river  wound  as  it  should  wind  ; 

Their  place  the  mountains  took  ; 
The  white  torn  fringes  of  their  clouds 

Wore  no  unwonted  look. 

Yet  ne'er  before  that  river's  rim 

Was  pressed  by  feet  of  mine, 
Never  before  mine  eyes  had  crossed 

That  broken  mountain  line. 

A  presence,  strange  at  once  and  known, 
Walked  with  me  as  my  guide  ; 

The  skirts  of  some  forgotten  life 
Trailed  noiseless  at  my  side. 


i6o 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 


Was  it  a  dim-remembered  dream  ? 

Or  glimpse  through  seons  old  ? 
The  secret  which  the  mountains  kept 

The  river  never  told. 

But  from  the  vision  ere  it  passed 

A  tender  hope  I  drew, 
And,  pleasant  as  a  dawn  of  spring, 

The  thought  within  me  grew, 

That  love  would  temper  every  change, 

And  soften  all  surprise, 
And,  misty  with  the  dreams  of  earth, 

The  hills  of  Heaven  arise. 

A   SEA   DREAM 

WE  saw  the  slow  tides  go  and  come, 
The  curving  surf-lines  lightly  drawn, 

The  gray  rocks  touched  with  tender  bloom 
Beneath  the  fresh-blown  rose  of  dawn. 

We  saw  in  richer  sunsets  lost 

The  sombre  pomp  of  showery  noons  ; 

And  signalled  spectral  sails  that  crossed 
The  weird,  low  light  of  rising  moons. 

On  stormy  eves  from  cliff  and  head 

We    saw   the    white    spray   tossed    and 
spurned  ; 

While  over  all,  in  gold  and  red, 

Its  face  of  fire  the  lighthouse  turned. 

The  rail-car  brought  its  daily  crowds, 

Half  curious,  half  indifferent, 
Like  passing  sails  or  floating  clouds, 

We  saw  them  as  they  came  and  went. 

But,  one  calm  morning,  as  we  lay 
And  watched  the  mirage-lifted  wall 

Of  coast,  across  the  dreamy  bay, 
And  heard  afar  the  curlew  call, 

And  nearer  voices,  wild  or  tame, 
Of  airy  flock  and  childish  throng, 

Up  from  the  water's  edge  there  came 
Faint  snatches  of  familiar  song. 

Careless  we  heard  the  singer's  choice 
Of  old  and  common  airs  ;  at  last 

The  tender  pathos  of  his  voice 
In  one  low  chanson  held  us  fast. 

A  song  that  mingled  joy  and  pain, 
And  memories  old  and  sadly  sweet ; 


While,  timing  to  its  n^nor  strain, 
The  waves  in  lapsing  cadence  beat. 


The  waves  are  glad  in  breeze  and  sun  i 
The  rocks  are  fringed  with  foam  ; 

I  walk  once  more  a  haunted  shore, 
A  stranger,  yet  at  home, 
A  land  of  dreams  I  roam. 

Is  this  the  wind,  the  soft  sea-wind 
That  stirred  thy  locks  of  brown  ? 

Are  these  the  rocks  whose  mosses  kneM 
The  trail  of  thy  light  gown, 
Where  boy  and  girl  sat  down  ? 

I  see  the  gray  fort's  broken  wall, 
The  boats  that  rock  below  ; 

And,  out  at  sea,  the  passing  sails 
We  saw  so  long  ago 
Rose-red  in  morning's  glow. 

The  freshness  of  the  early  time 

On  every  breeze  is  blown  ; 
As  glad  the  sea,  as  blue  the  sky,— 

The  change  is  ours  alone  ; 

The  saddest  is  my  own. 

A  stranger  now,  a  world-worn  man, 

Is  he  who  bears  my  name  ; 
But  thou,  methinks,  whose  mortal  life 

Immortal  youth  became, 

Art  evermore  the  same. 

Thou  art  not  here,  thou  art  not  there. 
Thy  place  I  cannot  see  ; 

I  only  know  that  where  thou  art 
The  blessed  angels  be, 
And  heaven  is  glad  for  thee. 

Forgive  me  if  the  evil  years 
Have  left  on  me  their  sign  ; 

Wash  out,  O  soul  so  beautiful, 
The  many  stains  of  mine 
In  tears  of  love  divine  ! 

I  could  not  look  on  thee  and  live, 

If  thou  wert  by  my  side  ; 
The  vision  of  a  shining  one, 

The  white  and  heavenly  bride, 

Is  well  to  me  denied. 

But  turn  to  me  thy  dear  girl-face 
Without  the  angel's  crown, 


SUNSET   ON  THE   BEARCAMP 


161 


The  wedded  roses  of  thy  lips, 
Thy  loose  hair  rippling  down 
In  waves  of  golden  browiv 

Look  forth  once  more  through  space  and 
time, 

And  let  thy  sweet  shade  fall 
In  tenderest  grace  of  soul  and  form 

On  memory's  frescoed  wall, 

A  shadow,  and  yet  all  ! 

Draw  near,  more  near,  forever  dear  ! 

Where'er  I  rest  or  roam, 
Or  in  the  city's  crowded  streets, 

Or  by  the  blown  sea  foam, 

The  thought  of  thee  is  home  ! 

At  breakfast  hour  the  singer  read 
The  city  news,  with  comment  wise, 

Like  one  who  felt  the  pulse  of  trade 
Beneath  his  finger  fall  and  rise. 

His  look,  his  air,  his  curt  speech,  told 
The  man  of  action,  not  of  books, 

To  whom  the  corners  made  in  gold 

And  stocks  were  more  than  seaside  nooks. 

Of  life  beneath  the  life  confessed 
His  song  had  hinted  unawares  ; 

Of  flowers  in  traffic's  ledgers  pressed, 
Of  human  hearts  in  bulls  and  bears. 

But  eyes  in  vain  were  turned  to  watch 
That  face  so  hard  and  shrewd  and  strong  ; 

And  ears  in  vain  grew  sharp  to  catch 
The  meaning  of  that  morning  song. 

In  vain  some  sweet-voiced  querist  sought 
To  sound  him,  leaving  as  she  came  ; 

Her  baited  album  only  caught 
A  common,  unromantic  name. 

No  word  betrayed  the  mystery  fine, 
That  trembled  on  the  singer's  tongue  ; 

He  came  and  went,  and  left  no  sign 
Behind  him  save  the  song  he  sung. 

HAZEL   BLOSSOMS 

THE  summer  warmth  has  left  the  sky, 
The  summer  songs  have  died  away  ; 

And,  withered,  in  the  footpaths  lie 
The  fallen  leaves,  but  yesterday 
With  ruby  and  with  topaz  gay. 


The  grass  is  browning  on  the  hills  ; 
No  pale,  belated  flowers  recall 

The  astral  fringes  of  the  rills, 
And  drearily  the  dead  vin^s  fall, 
Frost-blackened,  from  the  roadside  wall 

Yet  through  the  gray  and  sombre  wood, 
Against  the  dusk  of  fir  and  pine, 

Last  of  their  floral  sisterhood, 

The  hazel's  yellow  blossoms  shine, 
The  tawny  gold  of  Afric's  mine  ! 

Small  beauty  hath  my  unsung  flower, 
For  spring  to  own  or  summer  hail ; 

But,  in  the  season's  saddest  hour, 

To  skies  that  weep  and  winds  that  wail 
Its  glad  surprisals  never  fail. 

O  days  grown  cold  !     O  life  grown  old  ! 
No  rose  of  June  may  bloom  again  ; 

But,  like  the  hazel's  twisted  gold, 
Through  early  frost  and  latter  rain 
Shall  hints  of  summer-time  remain. 

And  as  within  the  hazel's  bough 
A  gift  of  mystic  virtue  dwells, 

That  points  to  golden  ores  below, 
And  in  dry  desert  places  tells 
Where    flow    unseen    the    cool,    sweet 
wells,  — 

So,  in  the  wise  Diviner's  hand, 
Be  mine  the  hazel's  grateful  part 

To  feel,  beneath  a  thirsty  land, 
The  living  waters  thrill  and  start, 
The  beating  of  the  rivulet's  heart ! 

Sufficeth  me  the  gift  to  light 

With  latest  bloom  the  dark,  cold  days  j 

To  call  some  hidden  spring  to  sight 
That,  in  these  dry  and  dusty  ways, 
Shall  sing  its  pleasant  song  of  praise. 

O  Love  !  the  hazel-wand  may  fail, 
But  thou  canst  lend  the  surer  spell, 

That,  passing  over  Baca's  vale, 
Repeats  the  old-time  miracle, 
And  makes  the  desert-land  a  well. 


SUNSET  ON  THE  BEARCAMP 

A  GOLD  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem 

Of  hills  the  river  runs, 
As  down  its  long,  green  valley  falls 


162 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 


The  last  of  summer's  suns. 
Along  its  tawny  gravel- bed 

Broad-flowing,  swift,  and  still, 
As  if  its  meadow  levels  felt 

The  hurry  of  the  hill, 
Noiseless  between  its  banks  of  green 

From  curve  to  curve  it  slips  ; 
The  drowsy  maple-shadows  rest 

Like  fingers  on  its  lips. 

A  waif  from  Carroll's  wildest  hills, 

Unstoried  and  unknown  ; 
The  ursine  legend  of  its  name 

Prowls  on  its  banks  alone. 
Yet  flowers  as  fair  its  slopes  adorn 

As  ever  Yarrow  knew, 
Or,  under  rainy  Irish  skies, 

By  Spenser's  Mulla  grew  ; 
And  through  the  gaps  of  leaning  trees 

Its  mountain  cradle  shows  : 
The  gold  against  the  amethyst, 

The  green  against  the  rose. 

Touched  by  a  light  that  hath  no  name, 

A  glory  never  sung, 
Aloft  on  sky  and  mountain  wall 

Are  God's  great  pictures  hung. 
How  changed  the  summits  vast  and  old  ! 

No  longer  granite-browed, 
They  melt  in  rosy  mist ;  the  rock 

Is  softer  than  the  cloud  ; 
The  valley  holds  its  breath  ;  no  leaf 

Of  all  its  elms  is  twirled  : 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Seems  falling  on  the  world. 

The  pause  before  the  breaking  seals 

Of  mystery  is  this  ; 
Yon  miracle-play  of  night  and  day 

Makes  dumb  its  witnesses. 
What  unseen  altar  crowns  the  hills 

That  reach  up  stair  on  stair  ? 
What  eyes  look  through,  what  white  wings 
fan 

These  purple  veils  of  air  ? 
What  Presence  from  the  heavenly  heights 

To  those  of  earth  stoops  down  ? 
Not  vainly  Hellas  dreamed  of  gods 

On  Ida's  snowy  crown  ! 

Slow  fades  the  vision  of  the  sky, 

The  golden  water  pales, 
And  over  all  the  valley-land 

A  gray-winged  vapor  sails. 
L  go  the  common  way  of  all  ; 


The  sunset  fires  will  burn, 
The  flowers  will  blow,  the  river  flow, 

When  I  no  more  return. 
No  whisper  from  the  mountain  pine 

Nor  lapsing  stream  shall  tell 
The  stranger,  treading  where  I  tread, 

Of  him  who  loved  them  well. 

But  beauty  seen  is  never  lost, 

God's  colors  all  are  fast  ; 
The  glory  of  this  sunset  heaven 

Into  my  soul  has  passed, 
A  sense  of  gladness  unconfined 

To  mortal  date  or  clime  ; 
As  the  soul  liveth,  it  shall  live 

Beyond  the  years  of  time. 
Beside  the  mystic  asphodels 

Shall  bloom  the  home-born  flowers, 
And  new  horizons  flush  and  glow 

With  sunset  hues  of  ours. 

Farewell  !  these  smiling  hills  must  wear 

Too  soon  their  wintry  frown, 
And  snow-cold  winds  from  off  them  shake 

The  maple's  red  leaves  down. 
But  I  shall  see  a  summer  sun 

Still  setting  broad  and  low  ; 
The  mountain  slopes  shall  blush  and  bloono, 

The  golden  water  flow. 
A  lover's  claim  is  mine  on  all 

I  see  to  have  and  hold,  — 
The  rose-light  of  perpetual  hills, 

And  sunsets  never  cold  ! 

THE  SEEKING  OF  THE  WATER 
FALL 

THEY  left  their  home  of  summer  ease 
Beneath  the  lowland's  sheltering  trees, 
To  seek,  by  ways  unknown  to  all, 
The  promise  of  the  waterfall. 

Some  vague,  faint  rumor  to  the  vals 
Had  crept  —  perchance  a  hunter's  tale  — 
Of  its  wild  mirth  of  waters  lost 
On  the  dark  woods  through  which  it  tossed 

Somewhere  it   laughed    and   sang  ;  some 
where 

Whirled  in  mad  dance  its  misty  hair  ; 
But  who  had  raised  its  veil,  or  seen 
The  rainbow  skirts  of  that  Undine  ? 

They  sought  it  where  the  mountain  brook 
Its  swift  way  to  the  valley  took  ; 


THE   SEEKING  OF  THE  WATERFALL 


•63 


Along  the  rugged  slope  they  clomb, 
Their  guide  a  thread  of  sound  and  foam. 

Height  after  height  they  slowly  won  ; 
The  fiery  javelins  of  the  sun 
Smote  the  bare  ledge  ;  the  tangled  shade 
With  rock  and  vine  their  steps  delayed. 

But,  through  leaf-openings,  now  and  then 
They  saw  the  cheerful  homes  of  men, 
And  the  great  mountains  with  their  wall 
Of  misty  purple  girdling  all. 

The  leaves  through  which  the  glad  winds 

blew 

Shared  the  wild  dance  the  waters  knew  ; 
And  where  the  shadows  deepest  fell 
The  wood-thrush  rang  his  silver  bell. 

Fringing  the  stream,  at  every  turn 
Swung  low  the  waving  fronds  of  fern  ; 
From  stony  cleft  and  mossy  sod 
Pale  asters  sprang,  and  golden-rod. 

And  still  the  water  sang  the  sweet, 
Glad  song  that  stirred  its  gliding  feet, 
And  found  in  rock  and  root  the  keys 
Of  its  beguiling  melodies. 

Beyond,  above,  its  signals  flew 
Of  tossing  foam  the  birch-trees  through  ; 
Now  seen,  now  lost,  but  baffling  still 
The  weary  seekers'  slackening  will. 

Each    called    to    each  :     "  Lo    here  !     Lo 

there  ! 

Its  white  scarf  flutters  in  the  air  ! " 
They  climbed  anew  ;  the  vision  fled, 
To  beckon  higher  overhead. 

So  toiled  they  up  the  mountain-slope 
With  faint  and  ever  fainter  hope  ; 
With  faint  and  fainter  voice  the  brook 
Still  bade  them  listen,  pause,  and  look. 

Meanwhile  below  the  day  was  done  ; 
Above  the  tall  peaks  saw  the  sun 
Sink,  beam-shorn,  to  its  misty  set 
Behind  the  hills  of  violet. 


our     quest!"     the    seekers 


"  Here    ends 
cried, 

"The  brook  and  rumor  both  have  lied  1 
The  phantom  of  a  waterfall 
Has  led  us  at  its  beck  and  call." 


But  one,  with  years  grown  wiser,  said  : 
"  So,  always  baffled,  not  misled, 
We  follow  where  before  us  runs 
The  vision  of  the  shining  ones. 

"  Not  where  they  seem  their  signals  fly, 
Their  voices  while  we  listen  die  ; 
We  cannot  keep,  however  fleet, 
The  quick  time  of  their  winged  feet. 

"  From  youth  to  age  unresting  stray 
These  kindly  mockers  in  our  way  ; 
Yet  lead  they  not,  the  baffling  elves, 
To  something  better  than  themselves  ? 

"  Here,    though    unreached    the    goal   we 

sought, 

Its  own  reward  our  toil  has  brought  : 
The  winding  water's  sounding  rush, 
The  long  note  of  the  hermit  thrush, 

"  The  turquoise  lakes,  the  glimpse  of  pond 
And  river  track,  and,  vast,  beyond 
Broad  meadows  belted  round  with  pines, 
The  grand  uplift  of  mountain  lines  ! 

"  What  matter  though  we  seek  with  pain 
The  garden  of  the  gods  in  vain, 
If  lured  thereby  we  climb  to  greet 
Some  wayside  blossom  Eden-sweet  ? 

"  To  seek  is  better  than  to  gain, 
The  fond  hope  dies  as  we  attain  ; 
Life's  fairest  things  are  those  which  seem, 
The  best  is  that  of  which  we  dream. 

"  Then  let  us  trust  our  waterfall 
Still  flashes  down  its  rocky  wall, 
With  rainbow  crescent  curved  across 
Its  sunlit  spray  from  moss  to  moss. 

"  And  we,  forgetful  of  our  pain, 
In  thought  shall  seek  it  oft  again  ; 
Shall  see  this  aster-blossomed  sod, 
This  sunshine  of  the  golden-rod, 

"  And  haply  gain,  through  parting  boughs. 
Grand  glimpses  of  great  mountain  brows 
Cloud-turbaned,  and  the  sharp  steel  sb«eii 
Of  lakes  deep  set  in  valleys  green. 

"  So  failure  wins  ;  the  consequence 
Of  loss  becomes  its  recompense  ; 
And  evermore  the  end  shall  tell 
The  unreached  ideal  guided  well, 


i64 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 


"  Our  sweet  illusions  only  die 
Fulfilling  love's  sure  prophecy  ; 
And  every  wish  for  better  things 
An  undreamed  beauty  nearer  brings. 

"  For  fate  is  servitor  of  love  ; 
Desire  and  hope  and  longing  prove 
The  secret  of  immortal  youth, 
And  Nature  cheats  us  into  truth. 

"  O  kind  allurers,  wisely  sent, 
Beguiling  with  benign  intent, 
Still  move  us,  through  divine  unrest, 
To  seek  the  loveliest  and  the  best ! 

"  Go  with  us  when  our  souls  go  free, 
And,  in  the  clear,  white  light  to  be, 
Add  unto  Heaven's  beatitude 
The  old  delight  of  seeking  good  !  " 


THE   TRAILING   ARBUTUS 

I  WANDERED  lonely  where  the  pine-trees 

made 
Against  the  bitter  East  their  barricade, 

And,  guided  by  its  sweet 
Perfume,  I  found,  within  a  narrow  dell, 
The  trailing   spring   flower   tinted   like   a 

shell 

Amid   dry    leaves   and    mosses    at    my 
feet. 

From  under  dead   boughs,  for  whose  loss 

the  pines 
Moaned  ceaseless  overhead,  the  blossoming 

vines 

Lifted  their  glad  surprise, 
While  yet  the  bluebird  smoothed  in  leafless 

trees 

His  feathers  ruffled  by  the  chill  sea-breeze, 
And    snow-drifts    lingered   under   April 

skies. 

As,  pausing,  o'er  the  lonely  flower  I  bent, 
I  thought  of  lives  thus  lowly,  clogged  and 

pent, 

Which  yet  find  room, 
Through   care  and   cumber,  coldness   and 

decay, 

To  lend  a  sweetness  to  the  ungenial  day, 
And  make  the  sad  earth  happier  for  their 
bloom. 


ST.    MARTIN'S    SUMMER 


This  name  in  some  parts  of  Europe  is  given 
to  the  season  we  call  Indian  Summer,  in  honor 
of  the  good  St.  Martin.  The  title  of  the  poem 
was  suggested  by  the  fact  that  the  day  it  refers 
to  was  the  exact  date  of  that  set  apart  to  the 
Saint,  the  llth  of  November. 

THOUGH  flowers  have  perished  at  the  touch 

Of  Frost,  the  early  comer, 
I  hail  the  season  loved  so  much, 

The  good  St.  Martin's  summer. 

O  gracious  morn,  with  rose-red  dawn, 
And  thin  moon  curving  o'er  it  ! 

The  old  year's  darling,  latest  born, 
More  loved  than  all  before  it  ! 

How  flamed  the  sunrise  through  the  pines' 
How  stretched  the  birchen  shadows, 

Braiding  in  long,  wind-wavered  lines 
The  westward  sloping  meadows  ! 

The  sweet  day,  opening  as  a  flower 

Unfolds  its  petals  tender, 
Renews  for  us  at  noontide's  hour 

The  summer's  tempered  splendor. 

The  birds  are  hushed  ;  alone  the  wind, 
That  through  the  woodland  searches, 

The  red-oak's  lingering  leaves  can  find, 
And  yellow  plumes  of  larches. 

But  still  the  balsam-breathing  pine 

Invites  no  thought  of  sorrow, 
No  hint  of  loss  from  air  like  wine 

The  earth's  content  can  borrow. 

The  summer  and  the  winter  here 

Midway  a  truce  are  holding, 
A  soft,  consenting  atmosphere 

Their  tents  of  peace  enfolding. 

The  silent  woods,  the  lonely  hills, 
Rise  solemn  in  their  gladness  ; 

The  quiet  that  the  valley  fills 
Is  scarcely  joy  or  sadness. 

How  strange  !  The  autumn  yesterday 
In  winter's  grasp  seemed  dying  ; 

On  whirling  winds  from  skies  of  gray 
The  early  snow  was  flying. 


A   SUMMER   PILGRIMAGE 


And  now,  while  over  Nature's  mood 
There  steals  a  soft  relenting, 

I  will  not  mar  the  present  good, 
Forecasting  or  lamenting. 

My  autumn  time  and  Nature's  hold 

A  dreamy  tryst  together, 
And,  both  grown  old,  about  us  fold 

The  golden-tissued  weather. 

I  lean  my  heart  against  the  day 
To  feel  its  bland  caressing  ; 

I  will  not  let  it  pass  away 
Before  it  leaves  its  blessing. 

God's  angels  come  not  as  of  old 
The  Syrian  shepherds  knew  them  ; 

In  reddening  dawns,  in  sunset  gold, 
And  warm  noon  lights  I  view  them. 

Nor  need  there  is,  in  times  like  this 
When  heaven  to  earth  draws  nearer, 

Of  wing  or  song  as  witnesses 
To  make  their  presence  clearer. 

O  stream  of  life,  whose  swifter  flow 

Is  of  the  end  forewarning, 
Methinks  thy  sundown  afterglow 

Seems  less  of  night  than  morning  ! 

Old  cares  grow  light ;  aside  I  lay 
The  doubts  and  fears  that  troubled  ; 

The  quiet  of  the  happy  day 
Within  my  soul  is  doubled. 

That  clouds  must  veil  this  fair  sunshine 

Not  less  a  joy  I  find  it  ; 
Nor  less  yon  warm  horizon  line 

That  winter  lurks  behind  it. 

The  mystery  of  the  untried  days 
I  close  my  eyes  from  reading  ; 

His  will  be  done  whose  darkest  ways 
To  light  and  life  are  leading  ! 

Less  drear  the  winter  night  shall  be, 
If  memory  cheer  and  hearten 

Its  heavy  hours  with  thoughts  of  thee, 
Sweet  summer  of  St.  Martin  ! 


STORM    ON    LAKE   ASQUAM 

A  CLOUD,  like  that  the  old-time  Hebrew  saw 
On  Carmel  prophesying  rain,  began 


To  lift  itself  o'er  wooded  Cardigan, 
Growing  and  blackening.     Suddenly,  a  flaw 

Of  chill  wind  menaced  ;  then  a  strong  blast 

beat 
Down  the  long  valley's  murmuring  pines, 

and  woke 
The  noon-dream  of  the  sleeping  lake,  and 

broke 

Its  smooth  steel  mirror  at  the  mountains' 
feet. 

Thunderous  and  vast,  a  fire-veined  darkness 

swept 
Over  the    rough   pine-bearded   Asquam 

range  ; 
A    wraith    of    tempest,    wonderful    and 

strange, 
From  peak  to  peak  the  cloudy  giant  stepped, 

One  moment,  as  if  challenging  the  storm, 
Chocorua's  tall,  defiant  sentinel 
Looked  from  his  watch-tower  ;  then  the 
shadow  fell, 

And  the  wild  rain-drift  blotted  out  his  form. 

And  over  all  the  still  unhidden  sun, 

Weaving   its    light  through  slant-blown 

veils  of  rain, 
Smiled  on  the  trouble,  as  hope  smiles  on 

pain ; 
And,  when  the  tumult  and  the  strife  were 


With  one  foot  on  the  lake,  and  one  on  land, 
Framing  within  his  crescent's  tinted  streak 
A  far-off  picture  of  the  Melvin  peak, 

Spent  broken  clouds  the  rainbow's  angel 
spanned. 


A   SUMMER   PILGRIMAGE 

To  kneel  before  some  saintly  shrine, 
To  breathe  the  health  of  airs  divine, 
Or  bathe  where  sacred  rivers  flow, 
The  cowled  and  turbaned  pilgrims  go. 
I  too,  a  palmer,  take,  as  they 
With  staff  and  scallop-shell,  my  way 
To  feel,  from  burdening  cares  and  ills, 
The  strong  uplifting  of  the  hills. 

The  years  are  many  since,  at  first, 
For  dreamed-of  wonders  all  athirst, 
I  saw  on  Winnipesaukee  fall 


i66 


POEMS   OF   NATURE 


The  shadow  of  the  mountain  wall. 
Ah  !  where  are  they  who  sailed  with  me 
The  beautiful  island-studded  sea  ? 
And  am  I  he  whose  keen  surprise 
Flashed  out  from  such  unclouded  eyes  ? 

Still,  when  the  sun  of  summer  burns, 
My  longing  for  the  hills  returns  ; 
And  northward,  leaving  at  my  back 
The  warm  vale  of  the  Merrimac, 
I  go  to  meet  the  winds  of  morn, 
Blown  down  the  hill-gaps,  mountain-born, 
Breathe  scent  of  pines,  and  satisfy 
The  hunger  of  a  lowland  eye. 

Again  I  see  the  day  decline 
Along  a  ridged  horizon  line  ; 
Touching  the  hill-tops,  as  a  nun 
Her  beaded  rosary,  sinks  the  sun. 
One  lake  lies  golden,  which  shall  soon 
Be  silver  in  the  rising  moon  ; 
And  one,  the  crimson  of  the  skies 
And  mountain  purple  multiplies. 

With  the  untroubled  quiet  blends 
The  distance-softened  voice  of  friends  ; 
The  girl's  light  laugh  no  discord  brings 
To  the  low  song  the  pine-tree  sings  ; 
And,  not  unwelcome,  comes  the  hail 
Of  boyhood  from  his  nearing  sail. 
The  human  presence  breaks  no  spell, 
And  sunset  still  is  miracle  ! 

Calm  as  the  hour,  methinks  I  feel 

A  sense  of  worship  o'er  me  steal  ; 

Not  that  of  satyr-charming  Pan, 

No  cult  of  Nature  shaming  man, 

Not  Beauty's  self,  but  that  which  lives 

And  shines  through  all  the  veils  it  weaves,  — 

Soul  of  the  mountain,  lake,  and  wood, 

Their  witness  to  the  Eternal  Good  ! 

And  if,  by  fond  illusion,  here 

The  earth  to  heaven  seems  drawing  near, 

And  yon  outlying  range  invites 

To  other  and  serener  heights, 

Scarce  hid  behind  its  topmost  swell, 

The  shining  Mounts  Delectable  ! 

A  dream  may  hint  of  truth  no  less 

Than  the  sharp  light  of  wakefulness. 

As  through  her  veil  of  incense  smoke 
Of  old  the  spell-rapt  priestess  spoke. 
More  than  her  heathen  oracle, 
May  not  this  trance  of  sunset  tell 


That  Nature's  forms  of  loveliness 
Their  heavenly  archetypes  confess, 
Fashioned  like  Israel's  ark  alone 
From  patterns  in  the  Mount  made  known  ? 

A  holier  beauty  overbroods 
These  fair  and  faint  similitudes  ; 
Yet  not  unblest  is  he  who  sees 
Shadows  of  God's  realities, 
And  knows  beyond  this  masquerade 
Of  shape  and  color,  light  and  shade, 
And  dawn  and  set,  and  wax  and  wane, 
Eternal  verities  remain. 

O  gems  of  sapphire,  granite  set  ! 

0  hills  that  charmed  horizons  fret  ! 

1  know  how  fair  your  morns  can  break, 
In  rosy  light  on  isle  and  lake  ; 

How  over  wooded  slopes  can  run 
The  noonday  play  of  cloud  and  sun, 
And  evening  droop  her  oriflamme 
Of  gold  and  red  in  still  Asquam. 

The  summer  moons  may  round  again, 
And  careless  feet  these  hills  profane  ; 
These  sunsets  waste  on  vacant  eyes 
The  lavish  splendor  of  the  skies  ; 
Fashion  and  folly,  misplaced  here, 
Sigh  for  their  natural  atmosphere, 
And  travelled  pride  the  outlook  scorn 
Of  lesser  heights  than  Matterhorn  : 

But  let  me  dream  that  hill  and  sky 
Of  unseen  beauty  prophesy  ; 
And  in  these  tinted  lakes  behold 
The  trailing  of  the  raiment  fold 
Of  that  which,  still  eluding  gaze, 
Allures  to  upward-tending  ways, 
Whose  footprints  make,  wherever  found, 
Our  common  earth  a  holy  ground. 

SWEET    FERN 

THE  subtle  power  in  perfume  found 
Nor  priest  nor  sibyl  vainly  learned  ; 

On  Grecian  shrine  or  Aztec  mound 
No  censer  idly  burned. 

That  power  the  old-time  worships  knew, 
The  Corybantes'  frenzied  dance, 

The  Pythian  priestess  swooning  through 
The  wonderland  of  trance. 

And  Nature  holds,  in  wood  and  field, 
Her  thousand  sunlit  censers  still  ; 


THE  WOOD  GIANT 


16} 


To  spells  of  flower  and  shrub  we  yield 
Against  or  with  our  will. 

I  climbed  a  hill  path  strange  and  new 
With  slow  feet,  pausing  at  each  turn  ; 

A  sudden  waft  of  west  wind  blew 
The  breath  of  the  sweet  fern. 

That  fragrance  from  my  vision  swept 
The  alien  landscape  ;  in  its  stead, 

Up  fairer  hills  of  youth  I  stepped, 
As  light  of  heart  as  tread. 

I  saw  my  boyhood's  lakelet  shine 

Once   more   through    rifts  of  woodland 
shade  ; 

I  knew  my  river's  winding  line 
By  morning  mist  betrayed. 

With  me  June's  freshness,  lapsing  brook, 
Murmurs  of  leaf  and  bee,  the  call 

Of  birds,  and  one  in  voice  and  look 
In  keeping  with  them  all. 

A  fern  beside  the  way  we  went 

She  plucked,  and,  smiling,  held  it  up, 

While    from    her    hand   the    wild,   sweet 

scent 
I  drank  as  from  a  cup. 

0  potent  witchery  of  smell  ! 

The  dust-dry  leaves  to  life  return, 
And  she  who  plucked  them  owns  the  spell 

And  lifts  her  ghostly  fern. 

Or  sense  or  spirit  ?     Who  shall  say 

What  touch  the  chord  of  memory  thrills  ? 

It  passed,  and  left  the  August  day 
Ablaze  on  lonely  hills. 


THE   WOOD    GIANT 

[Written  at  Sturtevant's  Farm,  about  a  mile 
from  Centre  Harbor,  N.  H.] 

FROM  Alton  Bay  to  Sandwich  Dome, 

From  Mad  to  Saco  river, 
For  patriarchs  of  the  primal  wood 

We  sought  with  vain  endeavor. 

And  then  we  said  :  "  The  giants  old 

Are  lost  beyond  retrieval  ; 
This  pygmy  growth  the  axe  has  spared 

Is  not  the  wood  primeval. 


"  Look  where  we  will  o'er  vale  and  hill, 

How  idle  are  our  searches 
For   broad  -  girthed  maples,  wide -limbed 
oaks, 

Centennial  pines  and  birches  ! 

"  Their  tortured  limbs  the  axe  and  saw 
Have  changed  to  beams  and  trestles  ; 

They  rest  in  walls,  they  float  on  seas, 
They  rot  in  sunken  vessels. 

"  This  shorn  and  wasted  mountain  land 
Of  underbrush  and  boulder,  — 

Who  thinks  to  see  its  full-grown  tree 
Must  live  a  century  older." 

At  last  to  us  a  woodland  path, 

To  open  sunset  leading, 
Revealed  the  Anakim  of  pines 

Our  wildest  wish  exceeding. 

Alone,  the  level  sun  before  ; 

Below,  the  lake's  green  islands  ; 
Beyond,  in  misty  distance  dim, 

The  rugged  Northern  Highlands. 


Dark  Titan  on  his  Sunset  Hill 
Of  time  and  change  defiant  ! 

How     dwarfed     the      common 

seemed, 
Before  the  old-time  giant ! 


woodland 


What  marvel  that,  in  simpler  days 
Of  the  world's  early  childhood, 

Men    crowned    with   garlands,    gifts,    and 

praise 
Such  monarchs  of  the  wild-wood  ? 

That  Tyrian  maids  with  flower  and  song 
Danced  through  the  hill  grove's  spaces. 

And  hoary-bearded  Druids  found 
In  woods  their  holy  places  ? 

With  somewhat  of  that  Pagan  awe 
With  Christian  reverence  blending, 

We  saw  our  pine-tree's  mighty  arms 
Above  our  heads  extending. 

We  heard  his  needles'  mystic  rune, 

Now  rising,  and  now  dying, 
As  erst  Dodona's  priestess  heard 

The  oak  leaves  prophesying. 

Was  it  the  half-unconscious  inotui 
Of  one  apart  and  mateless,, 


1 68 


POEMS  OF   NATURE 


The  weariness  of  unshared  power, 
The  loneliness  of  greatness  ? 

O  dawns  and  sunsets,  lend  to  him 
Your  beauty  and  your  wonder  ! 

Blithe  sparrow,  sing  thy  summer  song 
His  solemn  shadow  under  ! 

Play  lightly  on  his  slender  keys, 

O  wind  of  summer,  waking 
For  hills  like  these  the  sound  of  seas 

On  far-off  beaches  breaking  ! 

And  let  the  eagle  and  the  crow 

Find  shelter  in  his  branches, 
When  winds  shake  down  his  winter  snow 

In  silver  avalanches. 

The  brave  are  braver  for  their  cheer, 
The  strongest  need  assurance, 

The  sigh  of  longing  makes  not  less 
The  lesson  of  endurance. 


A    DAY 

TALK  not  of  sad  November,  when  a  day 
Of  warm,  glad  sunshine  fills  the  sky  of 

noon, 
And  a  wind,  borrowed  from  some  morn 

of  June, 

Stirs   the   brown   grasses  and  the  leafless 
spray. 

On  the  un frosted  pool  the  pillared  pines 
Lay  their   long   shafts    of   shadow  :  the 
small  rill, 


Singing  a  pleasant  song  of  summer  still, 
A  line  of  silver,  down  the  hill-slope  shines. 

Hushed  the  bird -voices  and  the   hum  of 

bees, 
In   the   thin  grass  the  crickets  pipe  no 

more  ; 
But  still  the  squirrel  hoards  his  winter 

store, 

And   drops    his  nut-shells  from  the  shag- 
bark  trees. 

Softly  the  dark  green  hemlocks  whisper  : 

high 
Above,  the  spires  of   yellowing   larches 

show, 
Where  the  woodpecker  and  home-loving 

crow 

And   jay  and  nut  -  hatch    winter's  threat 
defy. 

O  gracious  beauty,  ever  new  and  old  ! 
O  sights  and  sounds  of   nature,  doubly 

dear 
When  the  low  sunshine  warns  the  closing 

year 

Of  snow-blown  fields  and  waves  of  Arctic 
cold! 

Close    to    my   heart    I    fold    each    lovely 

thing 

The  sweet  day  yields  ;  and,  not  disconso 
late, 
With  the  calm  patience  of  the  woods  I 

wait 

For  leaf  and  blossom  when  God  gives  us 
Spring  ! 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


A  LAMENT 

"  The  parted  spirit, 

Knoweth  it  not  our  sorrow  ?    Answereth  not 
Its  blessing  to  our  tears  ?  " 

THE  circle  is  broken,  one  seat  is  forsaken, 
One  bud  from  the  tree  of  our  friendship  is 

shaken  ; 
One  heart  from  among  us  no  longer  shall 

thrill 
With  joy  in  our  gladness,  or  grief  in  our 

ill. 

Weep  !    lonely  and  lowly  are    slumbering 

now 
The  light  of  her  glances,  the  pride  of  her 

brow  ; 
Weep  !   sadly  and  long  shall  we  listen  in 

vain 
To  hear  the  soft  tones  of  her  welcome  again. 

Give  our  tears  to  the  dead  !  For  human 
ity's  claim 

From  its  silence  and  darkness  is  ever  the 
same  ; 

The  hope  of  that  world  whose  existence  is 
bliss 

May  not  stifle  the  tears  of  the  mourners  of 
this. 

For,  oh  !  if  one  glance  the  freed  spirit  can 
throw 

On  the  scene  of  its  troubled  probation  be 
low, 

Than  the  pride  of  the  marble,  the  pomp  of 
the  dead, 

To  that  glance  will  be  dearer  the  tears  which 
we  shed. 

Oh,  who  can  forget  the  mild  light  of  her 
smile, 

Over  lips  moved  with  music  and  feeling  the 
while, 

The  eye's  deep  enchantment,  dark,  dream 
like,  and  clear, 

In  the  glow  of  its  gladness,  the  shade  of  its 
tear. 


And  the  charm  of  her  features,  while  over 
the  whole 

Played  the  hues  of  the  heart  and  the  sun 
shine  of  soul  ; 

And  the  tones  of  her  voice,  like  the  music 
which  seems 

Murmured  low  in  our  ears  by  the  Angel  cf 
dreams  ! 

But  holier  and  dearer  our  memories  hold 
Those  treasures  of  feeling,  more  precious 

than  gold, 
The  love  and  the  kindness  and  pity  which 

gave 
Fresh  flowers  for  the  bridal,  green  wreaths 

for  the  grave  ! 

The  heart  ever  open  to  Charity's  claim, 
Unmoved  from  its  purpose  by  censure  and 

blame, 

While  vainly  alike  on  her  eye  and  her  ear 
Fell  the  scorn  of  the  heartless,  the  jesting 

and  jeer. 

How  true  to  our  hearts  was  that  beautiful 

sleeper ! 
With  smiles  for  the  joyful,  with  tears  for 

the  weeper  ! 
Yet,  evermore  prompt,  whether  mournful 

or  gay, 
With  warnings  in  love  to  the  passing  astray. 

For,  though  spotless  herself,  she  could  sor 
row  for  them 

Who  sullied  with  evil  the  spirit's  pure  gem  ; 

And  a  sigh  or  a  tear  could  the  erring  reprove, 

And  the  sting  of  reproof  was  still  tempered 
by  love. 

As  a  cloud  of  the  sunset,  slow  melting  in 

heaven, 
As  a  star  that  is  lost  when  the  daylight  is 

given, 
As  a  glad  dream  of  slumber,  which  wakens 

in  bliss, 
She  hath  passed  to  the  world  of  the 

from  this. 


170 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


TO    THE    MEMORY    OF  CHARLES 
B.   STORRS 

Late  President  of  Western  Reserve  College, 
who  died  at  his  post  of  duty,  overworn  by  his 
strenuous  labors  with  tongue  and  pen  in  the 
cause  of  Human  Freedom. 

THOU  hast  fallen  in  thine  armor, 

Thou  martyr  of  the  Lord  ! 
With  thy  last  breath  crying  "  Onward  !  " 

And  thy  hand  upon  the  sword. 
The  haughty  heart  derideth, 

And  the  sinful  lip  reviles, 
But  the  blessing  of  the  perishing 

Around  thy  pillow  smiles  ! 

When  to  our  cup  of  trembling 

The  added  drop  is  given, 
And  the  long-suspended  thunder 

Falls  terribly  from  Heaven,  — 
When  a  new  and  fearful  freedom 

Is  proffered  of  the  Lord 
To  the  slow-consuming  Famine, 

The  Pestilence  and  Sword  ! 

When  the  refuges  of  Falsehood 

Shall  be  swept  away  in  wrath, 
And  the  temple  shall  be  shaken, 

With  its  idol,  to  the  earth, 
Shall  not  thy  words  of  warning 

Be  all  remembered  then  ? 
And  thy  now  unheeded  message 

Burn  in  the  hearts  of  men  ? 

Oppression's  hand  may  scatter 

Its  nettles  on  thy  tomb, 
And  even  Christian  bosoms 

Deny  thy  memory  room  ; 
For  lying  lips  shall  torture 

Thy  mercy  into  crime, 
And  the  slanderer  shall  flourish 

As  the  bay-tree  for  a  time. 

But  where  the  south-wind  lingers 

On  Carolina's  pines, 
Or  falls  the  careless  sunbeam 

Down  Georgia's  golden  mines  ; 
Where  now  beneath  his  burthen 

The  toiling  slave  is  driven  ; 
WThere  now  a  tyrant's  mockery 

Is  offered  unto  Heaven  ; 

Where  Mammon  hath  its  altars 
Wet  o'er  with  human  blood, 


And  pride  and  lust  debases 
The  workmanship  of  God,  — 

There  shall  thy  praise  be  spoken, 
Redeemed  from  Falsehood's  ban, 

When  the  fetters  shall  be  broken, 
And  the  slave  shall  be  a  man  ! 

Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

A  thousand  hearts  are  warm, 
A  thousand  kindred  bosoms 

Are  baring  to  the  storm. 
What  though  red-handed  Violence 

With  secret  Fraud  combine  ? 
The  wall  of  fire  is  round  us, 

Our  Present  Help  was  thine. 

Lo,  the  waking  up  of  nations, 

From  Slavery's  fatal  sleep  ; 
The  murmur  of  a  Universe, 

Deep  calling  unto  Deep  ! 
Joy  to  thy  spirit,  brother  ! 

On  every  wind  of  heaven 
The  onward  cheer  and  summons 

Of  Freedom's  voice  is  given  ! 

Glory  to  God  forever  ! 

Beyond  the  despot's  will 
The  soul  of  Freedom  liveth 

Imperishable  still. 
The  words  which  thou  hast  uttered 

Are  of  that  soul  a  part, 
And  the  good  seed  thou  hast  scattered 

Is  springing  from  the  heart. 

In  the  evil  days  before  us, 

And  the  trials  yet  to  come, 
In  the  shadow  of  the  prison, 

Or  the  cruel  martyrdom,  — 
We  will  think  of  theie,  O  brother ! 

And  thy  sainted  name  shall  be 
In  the  blessing  of  the  captive, 

And  the  anthem  of  the  free. 


LINES 

ON  THE  DEATH  OF  S.  OLIVER  TORREY> 
SECRETARY  OF  THE  BOSTON  YOUNG 
MEN'S  ANTI-SLAVERY  SOCIETY 

GONE  before  us,  O  our  brother, 

To  the  spirit-land  ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Who  shall  offer  youth  and  beauty 


TO 


171 


On  the  wasting  shrine 
Of  a  stern  and  lofty  duty, 
With  a  faith  like  thine  ? 

Oh,  thy  gentle  smile  of  greeting 

Who  again  shall  see  ? 
Who  amidst  the  solemn  meeting 

Gaze  again  on  thee  ? 
Who,  when  peril  gathers  o'er  us, 

Wear  so  calm  a  brow  ? 
Who,  with  evil  men  before  us, 

So  serene  as  thou  ? 

Early  hath  the  spoiler  found  thee, 

Brother  of  our  love  ! 
Autumn's  faded  earth  around  thee, 

And  its  storms  above  ! 
Evermore  that  turf  lie  lightly, 

And,  with  future  showers, 
O'er  thy  slumbers  fresh  and  brightly 

Blow  the  summer  flowers  ! 

In  the  locks  thy  forehead  gracing, 

Not  a  silvery  streak  ; 
Nor  a  line  of  sorrow's  tracing 

On  thy  fair  young  cheek  ; 
Eyes  of  light  and  lips  of  roses, 

Such  as  Hylas  wore,  — 
Over  all  that  curtain  closes, 

Which  shall  rise  no  more  ! 

Will  the  vigil  Love  is  keeping 

Round  that  grave  of  thine, 
Mournfully,  like  Jazer  weeping 

Over  Sibmah's  vine  ; 
Will  the  pleasant  memories,  swelling 

Gentle  hearts,  of  thee, 
In  the  spirit's  distant  dwelling 

All  unheeded  be  ? 

If  the  spirit  ever  gazes, 

From  its  journeyings,  back  ; 
If  the  immortal  ever  traces 

O'er  its  mortal  track  ; 
Wilt  thou  not,  O  brother,  meet  us 

Sometimes  on  our  way, 
And,  in  hours  of  sadness,  greet  us 

Aii  a  spirit  may  ? 

Peace  be  with  thee,  O  our  brother, 

In  the  spirit-land  ! 
Vainly  look  we  for  another 

In  thy  place  to  stand. 
Unto  Truth  and  Freedom  giving 

All  thy  early  powers, 


Be  thy  virtues  with  the  living, 
And  thy  spirit  ours  ! 


TO 


WITH    A    COPY    OF    WOOLMAN'S    JOURNAL 

"  Get   the   writing's   of    John  Woolman  by 
heart."  —  Essays  of  Elia. 

MAIDEN  !  with  the  fair  brown  tresses 
Shading  o'er  thy  dreamy  eye, 

Floating  on  thy  thoughtful  forehead 
Cloud  wreaths  of  its  sky. 

Youthful  years  and  maiden  beauty, 
Joy  with  them  should  still  abide, — 

Instinct  take  the  place  of  Duty, 
Love,  not  Reason,  guide. 

Ever  in  the  New  rejoicing, 

Rindly  beckoning  back  the  Old, 

Turning,  with  the  gift  of  Midas, 
All  things  into  gold. 

And  the  passing  shades  of  sadness 
Wearing  even  a  welcome  guise, 

As,  when  some  bright  lake  lies  open 
To  the  sunny  skies, 

Every  wing  of  bird  above  it, 
Every  light  cloud  floating  on, 

Glitters  like  that  flashing  mirror 
In  the  self-same  sun. 

But  upon  thy  youthful  forehead 
Something  like  a  shadow  lies  ; 

And  a  serious  soul  is  looking 
From  thy  earnest  eyes. 

With  an  early  introversion, 

Through  the  forms  of  outward  things, 
Seeking  for  the  subtle  essence, 

And  the  hidden  springs. 

Deeper  than  the  gilded  surface 
Hath  thy  wakeful  vision  seen, 

Farther  than  the  narrow  present 
Have  thy  journeyings  been. 

Thou  hast  midst  Life's  empty  noises 
Heard  the  solemn  steps  of  Time, 

And  the  low  mysterious  voices 
Of  another  clime. 


172 


PERSONAL  POEMS 


All  the  mystery  of  Being 

Hath  upon  thy  spirit  pressed,  — 

Thoughts  which,  like  the  Deluge  wanderer, 
Find  no  place  of  rest : 

That  which  mystic  Plato  pondered, 
That  which  Zeno  heard  with  awe, 

And  the  star-rapt  Zoroaster 
In  his  night  watch  saw. 

From  the  doubt  and  darkness  springing 

Of  the  dim,  uncertain  Past, 
Moving  to  the  dark  still  shadows 

O'er  the  Future  cast, 

Early  hath  Life's  mighty  question 
Thrilled  within  thy  heart  of  youth, 

With  a  deep  and  strong  beseeching  : 
What  and  where  is  Truth  ? 

Hollow  creed  and  ceremonial, 

Whence  the  ancient  life  hath  fled, 

Idle  faith  unknown  to  action, 
Dull  and  cold  and  dead. 

Oracles,  whose  wire-worked  meanings 

Only  wake  a  quiet  scorn,  — 
Not  from  these  thy  seeking  spirit 

Hath  its  answer  drawn. 

But,  like  some  tired  child  at  even, 
On  thy  mother  Nature's  breast, 

Thou,  methinks,  art  vainly  seeking 
Truth,  and  peace,  and  rest. 

O'er  that  mother's  rugged  features 
Thou  art  throwing  Fancy's  veil, 

Light  and  soft  as  woven  moonbeams, 
Beautiful  and  frail  ! 

O'er  the  rough  chart  of  Existence, 
Rocks  of  sin  and  wastes  of  woe, 

Soft  airs  breathe,  and  green  leaves  tremble, 
And  cool  fountains  How. 

And  to  thee  an  answer  cometh 
From  the  earth  and  from  the  sky, 

And  to  thee  the  hills  and  waters 
And  the  stars  reply. 

But  a  soul-sufficing  answer 

Hath  no  outward  origin  ; 
More  than  Nature's  many  voices 

May  be  heard  within. 


Even  as  the  great  Augustine 

Questioned  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 

And  the  dusty  tomes  of  learning 
And  old  poesy. 

But  his  earnest  spirit  needed 

More  than  outward  Nature  taught  ; 

More  than  blest  the  poet's  vision 
Or  the  sage's  thought. 

Only  in  the  gathered  silence 
Of  a  calm  and  waiting  frame, 

Light  and  wisdom  as  from  Heaven 
To  the  seeker  came. 

Not  to  ease  and  aimless  quiet 
Doth  that  inward  answer  tend, 

But  to  works  of  love  and  duty 
As  our  being's  end  ; 

Not  to  idle  dreams  and  trances, 
Length  of  face,  and  solemn  tone, 

But  to  Faith,  in  daily  striving 
And  performance  shown. 

Earnest  toil  and  strong  endeavor 

Of  a  spirit  which  within 
Wrestles  with  familiar  evil 

And  besetting  sin  ; 

And  without,  with  tireless  vigor, 
Steady  heart,  and  weapon  strong, 

In  the  power  of  truth  assailing 
Every  form  of  wrong. 

Guided  thus,  how  passing  lovely 
Is  the  track  of  Woolman's  feet ! 

And  his  brief  and  simple  record 
How  serenely  sweet  ! 

O'er  life's  humblest  duties  throwing 
Light  the  earthling  never  knew, 

Freshening  all  its  dark  waste  places 
As  with  Hermon's  dew. 

All  which  glows  in  Pascal's  pages, 
All  which  sainted  Guion  sought, 

Or  the  blue-eyed  German  Rahel 
Half-unconscious  taught : 

Beauty,  such  as  Goethe  pictured, 
Such  as  Shelley  dreamed  of,  shed 

Living  warmth  and  starry  brightness 
Round  that  poor  man's  head. 


TO   A  FRIEND 


173 


Not  a  vain  and  cold  ideal, 

Not  a  poet's  dream  alone, 
But  a  presence  warm  and  real, 

Seen  and  felt  and  kn,jwu. 

When  the  red  right-hand  of  slaughter 
Moulders  with  the  steel  it  swung, 

When  the  name  of  seer  and  poet 
Dies  on  Memory's  tongue, 

All  bright  thoughts  and  pure  shall  gather 
Round  that  meek  and  suffering  one,  — 

Glorious,  like  the  seer-seen  angel 
Standing  in  the  sun  ! 

Take  the  good  man's  book  and  ponder 

What  its  pages  say  to  thee  ; 
Blessed  as  the  hand  of  healing 

May  its  lesson  be. 

If  it  only  serves  to  strengthen 

Yearnings  for  a  higher  good, 
For  the  fount  of  living  waters 

And  diviner  food  ; 

If  the  pride  of  human  reason 
Feels  its  meek  and  still  rebuke, 

Quailing  like  the  eye  of  Peter 
From  the  Just  One's  look  ! 

If  with  readier  ear  thou  heedest 
What  the  Inward  Teacher  saith, 

Listening  with  a  willing  spirit 
And  a  childlike  faith,  — 

Thou  mayst  live  to  bless  the  giver, 
Who,  himself  but  frail  and  weak, 

Would  at  least  the  highest  welfare 
Of  another  seek  ; 

And  his  gift,  though  poor  and  lowly 

It  may  seem  to  other  eyes, 
Yet  may  prove  an  angel  holy 

In  a  pilgrim's  guise. 


LEGGETT'S    MONUMENT 

William  Leggett,  who  died  in  1839  at  the 
age  of  thirty-seven,  was  the  intrepid  editor  of 
the  New  York  Evening  Post  and  afterwards 
of  The  Plain  Dealer.  His  vigorous  assault 
upon  the  system  of  slavery  brought  down  upon 
him  the  enmity  of  political  defenders  of  the 
system. 


"  Ye  build  the  tombs  of  the  prophets."  —  Holy  Writ 

YES,  pile  the  marble  o'er  him  !     It  is  well 
That  ye  who  mocked    him  in   his   long 

stern  strife, 

And  planted  in  the  pathway  of  his  life 
The  ploughshares  of  your  hatred  hot  from 

hell, 
Who  clamored  down  the  bold  reformer 

when 

He  pleaded  for  his  captive  fellow-men, 
Who  spurned  him  in  the  market-place,  and 

sought 

Within  thy  walls,  St.  Tammany,  to  bind 
In  party  chains  the  free  and  honest  thought, 
The  angel  utterance  of  an  upright  mind, 
Well  is  it  now  that  o'er  his  grave  ye  raise 
The  stony  tribute  of  your  tardy  praise, 
For  not  alone  that  pile  shall  tell  to  Fame 
Of   the    brave  heart   beneath,  but   of  the 
builders'  shame  ! 


TO   A   FRIEND 

ON  HER  RETURN  FROM  EUROPE 

How  smiled  the  land  of  France 
Under  thy  blue  eye's  glance, 

Light-hearted  rover  ! 
Old  walls  of  chateaux  gray, 
Towers  of  an  early  day, 
Which  the  Three  Colors  play 

Flauntingly  over. 

Now  midst  the  brilliant  train 
Thronging  the  banks  of  Seine  : 

Now  midst  the  splendor 
Of  the  wild  Alpine  range, 
Waking  with  change  on  change 
Thoughts  in  thy  young  heart  strange, 

Lovely,  and  tender. 

Vales,  soft  Elysian, 
Like  those  in  the  vision 

Of  Mirza,  when,  dreaming, 
He  saw  the  long  hollow  dell, 
Touched  by  the  prophet's  spell, 
Into  an  ocean  swell 

With  its  isles  teeming. 

Cliffs  wrapped  in  snows  of  years. 
Splintering  with  icy  spears 

Autumn's  blue  heaven  : 
Loose  rock  and  frozen  slide, 
Hung  On  the  mountain-side, 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


Waiting  their  hour  to  glide 
Downward,  storm-driven  ! 

Rhine-stream,  by  castle  old, 
Baron's  and  robber's  hold, 

Peacefully  flowing  ; 
Sweeping  through  vineyards  green, 
Or  where  the  cliffs  are  seen 
O'er  the  broad  wave  between 

Grim  shadows  throwing. 

Or,  where  St.  Peter's  dome 
Swells  o'er  eternal  Rome, 

Vast,  dim,  and  solemn  ; 
Hymns  ever  chanting  low, 
Censers  swung  to  and  fro, 
Sable  stoles  sweeping  slow, 

Cornice  and  column  ! 

Oh,  as  from  each  and  all 
Will  there  not  voices  call 

Evermore  back  again  ? 
In  the  mind's  gallery 
Wilt  thou  not  always  see 
Dim  phantoms  beckon  thee 

O'er  that  old  track  again  ? 

New  forms  thy  presence  haunt, 
New  voices  softly  chant, 

New  faces  greet  thee  ! 
Pilgrims  from  many  a  shrine 
Hallowed  by  poet's  line, 
At  memory's  magic  sign, 

Rising  to  meet  thee. 

And  when  such  visions  come 
Unto  thy  olden  home, 

Will  they  not  waken 
Deep  thoughts  of  Him  whose  hand 
Led  thee  o'er  sea  and  land 
Back  to  the  household  band 

Whence  thou  wast  taken  ? 

While,  at  the  sunset  time, 
Swells  the  cathedral's  chime, 

Yet,  in  thy  dreaming, 
While  to  thy  spirit's  eye 
Yet  the  vast  mountains  lie 
Piled  in  the  Switzer's  sky, 

Icy  and  gleaming  : 

Prompter  of  silent  prayer, 
Be  the  wild  picture  there 

In  the  mind's  chamber, 
And,  through  each  coining  day 


Him  who,  as  staff  and  stay, 
Watched  o'er  thy  wandering  way, 
Freshly  remember. 

So,  when  the  call  shall  be 
Soon  or  late  unto  thee, 

As  to  all  given, 
Still  may  that  picture  live, 
All  its  fair  forms  survive, 
And  to  thy  spirit  give 

Gladness  in  Heaven  ! 


LUCY   HOOPER 

Lucy  Hooper  died  at  Brooklyn,  L.I.,  on  the 
1st  of  8th  mo.,  1841,  aged  twenty-four  years. 

THEY  tell  me,  Lucy,  thou  art  dead, 

That  all  of  thee  we  loved  and  cherished 
Has  with  thy  summer  roses  perished  ; 

And  left,  as  its  young  beauty  fled, 

An  ashen  memory  in  its  stead, 
The  twilight  of  a  parted  day 

Whose  fading  light  is  cold  and  vain, 
The  heart's  faint  echo  of  a  strain 

Of  low,  sweet  music  passed  away. 
That  true  and  loving  heart,  that  gift 

Of  a  mind,  earnest,  clear,  profound, 
Bestowing,  with  a  glad  unthrift, 

Its  sunny  light  on  all  around, 
Affinities  which  only  could 
Cleave  to  the  pure,  the  true,  and  good  ; 

And  sympathies  which  found  no  rest, 

Save  with  the  loveliest  and  best. 
Of  them  —  of  thee  —  remains  there  naughf 

But  sorrow  in  the  mourner's  breast  ? 
A  shadow  in  the  land  of  thought  ? 
No  !     Even  my  weak  and  trembling  faith 

Can  lift  for  thee  the  veil  which  doubt 

And  human  fear  have  drawn  about 
The  all-awaiting  scene  of  death. 

Even  as  thou  wast  I  see  thee  still  ; 
And,  save  the  absence  of  all  ill 
And  pain  and  weariness,  which  here 
Summoned  the  sigh  or  wrung  the  tear, 
The  same  as  when,  two  summers  back, 
Beside  our  childhood's  Merrimac, 
I  saw  thy  dark  eye  wander  o'er 
Stream,  sunny  upland,  rocky  shore, 
And  heard  thy  low,  soft  voice  alone 
Midst  lapse  of  waters,  and  the  tone 
Of  pine-leaves  by  the  west-wind  blown, 
There  's  not  a  charm  of  soul  or  brow, 
Of  all  we  knew  and  loved  in  thee. 


LUCY   HOOPER 


175 


But  lives  in  holier  beauty  now, 

Baptized  in  immortality  ! 
Not  mine  the  sad  and  freezing  dream 

Of  souls  that,  with  their  earthly  mould, 

Cast  off  the  loves  and  joys  of  old, 
Unbodied,  like  a  pale  moonbeam, 

As  pure,  as  passionless,  and  cold; 
Nor  mine  the  hope  of  Indra's  son, 

Of  slumbering  in  oblivion's  rest, 
Life's  myriads  blending  into  one, 

In  blank  annihilation  blest  ; 
Dust-atoms  of  the  infinite, 
Sparks  scattered  from  the  central  light, 
And  winning  back  through  mortal  pain 
Their  old  unconsciousness  again. 
No  !     I  have  friends  in  Spirit  Land, 
Not  shadows  in  a  shadowy  band, 

Not  others,  but  themselves  are  they. 
And  still  I  think  of  them  the  same 
As  when  the  Master's  summons  came  ; 
Their  change,  —  the  holy  morn-light  break 
ing 
Upon  the  dream-worn  sleeper,  waking,  — 

A  change  from  twilight  into  day. 

They  Ve    laid   thee    midst   the    household 
graves, 

Where  father,  brother,  sister  lie  ; 
Below  thee  sweep  the  dark  blue  waves, 

Above  thee  bends  the  summer  sky. 
Thy  own  loved  church  in  sadness  read 
Her  solemn  ritual  o'er  thy  head, 
And  blessed  and  hallowed  with  her  prayer 
The  turf  laid  lightly  o'er  thee  there. 
That  church,  whose  rites  and  liturgy, 
Sublime  and  old,  were  truth  to  thee, 
Undoubted  to  thy  bosom  taken, 
As  symbols  of  a  faith  unshaken. 
Even  I,  of  simpler  views,  could  feel 
The  beauty  of  thy  trust  and  zeal  ; 
And,  owning  not  thy  creed,  could  see 
How  deep  a  truth  it  seemed  to  thee, 
And  how  thy  fervent  heart  had  thrown 
O'er  all,  a  coloring  of  its  own, 
A.nd  kindled  up,  intense  and  warm, 
A  life  in  every  rite  and  form, 
As,  when  on  Chebar's  banks  of  old, 
The  Hebrew's  gorgeous  vision  rolled, 
A  spirit  filled  the  vast  machine, 
A  life  "  within  the  wheels  "  was  seen. 

Farewell  !     A  little  time,  and  we 

Who  knew  thee  well,  and  loved  thee  here, 

One  after  one  shall  follow  thee 

As  pilgrims  through  the  gate  of  fear, 


Which  opens  on  eternity. 

Yet  shall  we  cherish  not  the  less 

All  that  is  left  our  hearts  meanwhile  ; 
The  memory  of  thy  loveliness 

Shall  round  our  weary  pathway  smile, 
Like  moonlight  when  the  sun  has  set, 
A  sweet  and  tender  radiance  yet. 
Thoughts  of  thy  clear-eyed  sense  of  duty, 

Thy  generous  scorn  of  all  things  wrong, 
The  truth,  the  strength,  the  graceful  beauty 

Wrhich  blended  in  thy  song. 
All  lovely  things,  by  thee  beloved, 

Shall  whisper  to  our  hearts  of  thee  ; 
These    green   hills,    where    thy    childhood 
roved, 

Yon  river  winding  to  the  sea, 
The  sunset  light  of  autumn  eves 

Reflecting  on  the  deep,  still  floods, 
Cloud,  crimson  sky,  and  trembling  leaves 

Of  rainbow-tinted  woods, 
These,  in  our  view,  shall  henceforth  take 
A  tenderer  meaning  for  thy  sake  ; 
And  all  thou  lovedst  of  earth  and  sky 
Seem  sacred  to  thy  memory. 

FOLLEN 

ON  READING  HIS  ESSAY  ON  THE  "FUTURE 

STATE  " 

Charles  Follen,  one  of  the  noblest  contribu 
tions  of  Germany  to  American  citizenship,  was 
at  an  early  age  driven  from  his  professorship 
in  the  University  of  Jena,  and  compelled  to  seek 
shelter  from  official  prosecution  in  Switzerland, 
on  account  of  his  liberal  political  opinions.  He 
became  Professor  of  Civil  Law  in  the  Univer 
sity  of  Basle.  The  governments  of  Prussia, 
Austria,  and  Russia  united  in  demanding-  his 
delivery  as  a  political  offender ;  and,  in  conse 
quence,  he  left  Switzerland,  and  came  to  the 
United  States.  At  the  time  of  the  formation 
of  the  American  Anti-Slavery  Society  he  was 
a  Professor  in  Harvard  University,  honored  for 
his  genius,  learning-,  and  estimable  character 
His  love  of  liberty  and  hatred  of  oppression  led 
him  to  seek  an  interview  with  Garrison  and  ex 
press  his  sympathy  with  him.  Soon  after,  he 
attended  a  meeting"  of  the  New  England  Anti- 
Slavery  Society.  An  able  speech  was  made  by 
Rev.  A.  A.  Plielps,  and  a  letter  of  nine  ad 
dressed  to  the  Secretary  of  the  Society  was 
read.  Whereupon  he  rose  and  stated  that  his 
views  were  in  unison  with  those  of  the  Society, 
and  that  after  hearing-  the  speech  and  the  let 
ter,  he  was  ready  to  join  it,  and  abido  tne 
probable  consequences  of  such  an  unpopular 
act.  He  lost  by  so  doing  his  professorship. 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


He  was  an  able  member  of  the  Executive 
Committee  of  the  American  Anti-Slavery  Soci 
ety.  He  Derished  in  the  ill-fated  steamer  Lex 
ington,  which  was  burned  on  its  passage  from 
New  York,  January  13,  1840.  The  few  writings 
left  behind  him  show  him  to  have  been  a 
profound  thinker  of  rare  spiritual  insight. 

FRIEND  of  my  soul  !  as  with  moist  eye 
I  look  up  from  this  page  of  thine, 

Is  it  a  dream  that  tliou  art  nigh, 
Thy  mild  face  gazing  into  mine  ? 

That  presence  seems  before  me  now, 
A  placid  heaven  of  sweet  moonrise, 

When,  dew-like,  on  the  earth  below 
Descends  the  quiet  of  the  skies. 

The  calm  brow  through  the  parted  hair, 
The  gentle  lips  which  knew  no  guile, 

Softening  the  blue  eye's  thoughtful  care 
With  the  bland  beauty  of  their  smile. 

Ah  me  !  at  times  that  last  dread  scene 
Of  Frost  and  Fire  and  moaning  Sea 

Will  cast  its  shade  of  doubt  between 
The  failing  eyes  of  Faith  and  thee. 

Yet,  lingering  o'er  thy  charmed  page, 
Where  through  the  twilight  air  of  earth, 

Alike  enthusiast  and  sage, 

Prophet  and  bard,  thou  gazest  forth, 

Lifting  the  Future's  solemn  veil  ; 

The  reaching  of  a  mortal  hand 
To  put  aside  the  cold  and  pale 

Cloud-curtains  of  the  Unseen  Land  ; 

In  thoughts  which  answer  to  my  own, 
In  words  which  reach  my  inward  ear, 

Like  whispers  from  the  void  Unknown, 
I  feel  thy  living  presence  here. 

The  waves  which  lull  thy  body's  rest, 
The  dust  thy  pilgrim  footsteps  trod, 

Unwasted,  through  each  change,  attest 
The  fixed  economy  of  God. 


Shall  these  poor  elements  outlive 
The     mind     whose     kingly     will 
wrought  ? 

Their  gross  unconsciousness  survive 
Thy  godlike  energy  of  thought  ? 

Thou  livest,  Follen  !  not  in  vain 
Hath  thy  fine  spirit  meekly  borne 


they 


The  burthen  of  Life's  cross  of  pain, 

And  the  thorned  crown  of  suffering  worn 

Oh,  while  Life's  solemn  mystery  glooms 
Around  us  like  a  dungeon's  wall, 

Silent  earth's  pale  and  crowded  tombs, 
Silent    the    heaven    which     bends    o'er 
all! 

While  day  by  day  our  loved  ones  glide 
In  spectral  silence,  hushed  and  lone, 

To  the  cold  shadows  which  divide 

The  living  from  the  dread  Unknown  ; 

While  even  on  the  closing  eye, 

And  on  the  lip  which  moves  in  vain, 

The  seals  of  that  stern  mystery 
Their  undiscovered  trust  retain  ; 

And  only  midst  the  gloom  of  death, 

Its  mournful  doubts  and  haunting  fears. 

Two  pale,  sweet  angels,  Hope  and  Faith, 
Smile  dimly  on  us  through  their  tears  ; 

'T  is  something  to  a  heart  like  mine 
To  think  of  thee  as  living  yet  ; 

To  feel  that  such  a  light  as  thine 
Could  not  in  utter  darkness  set. 

Less  dreary  seems  the  untried  way 

Since  thou  hast  left  thy  footprints  therej 

And  beams  of  mournful  beauty  play 
Round  the  sad  Angel's  sable  hair. 

Oh  !  at  this  hour  when  half  the  sky 
Is  glorious  with  its  evening  light, 

And  fair  broad  fields  of  summer  lie 

Hung  o'er  with  greenness  in  my  sight ; 

While  through  these  elm-boughs  wet  with 

rain 

The  sunset's  golden  walls  are  seen, 
With  clover-bloom  and  yellow  grain 

And  wood -draped  hill  and   stream   be 
tween  ; 

I  long  to  know  if  scenes  like  this 
Are  hidden  from  an  angel's  eyes  ; 

If  earth's  familiar  loveliness 

Haunts  not  thy  heaven's  serener  skies. 

For  sweetly  here  upon  thee  grew 
The  lesson  which  that  beauty  gave, 

The  ideal  of  the  pure  and  true 

In  earth  and  sky  and  gliding  wave. 


CHALKLEY   HALL 


And  it  may  be  that  all  which  lends 
The  soul  an  upward  impulse  here, 

With  a  diviner  beauty  blends, 
And  greets  us  in  a  holier  sphere. 

Through  groves  where  blighting  never  fell 
The  humbler  flowers  of  earth  may  twine  ; 

And  simple  draughts  from  childhood's  well 
Blend  with  the  angel-tasted  wine. 

But  be  the  prying  *Tision  veiled, 
And  let  the  seeking  lips  be  dumb, 

Where  even  seraph  eyes  have  failed 
Shall  mortal  blindness  seek  to  come  ? 

We  only  know  that  thou  hast  gone, 
And  that  the  same  returnless  tide 

Which  bore  thee  from  us  still  glides  on, 
And  we  who  mourn  thee  with  it  glide. 

On  all  thou  lookest  we  shall  look, 
And  to  our  gaze  erelong  shall  turn 

That  page  of  God's  mysterious  book 
We  so  much  wish  yet  dread  to  learn. 

With  Him,  before  whose  awful  power 
Thy  spirit  bent  its  trembling  knee  ; 

Who,  in  the  silent  greeting  flower, 
And  forest  leaf,  looked  out  on  thee, 

We  leave  thee,  with  a  trust  serene, 

Which  Time,  nor  Change,  nor  Death  can 
move, 

While  with  thy  childlike  faith  we  lean 
On  Him  whose  dearest  name  is  Love  ! 


TO    J.    P. 

John   Pierpont,    the  eloquent  preacher  and 
poet  of  Boston. 

NOT  as  a  poor  requital  of  the  joy 

With  which  my  childhood  heard  that  lay 

of  thine, 

Which,  like  an  echo  of  the  song  divine 
At   Bethlehem   breathed   above    the  Holy 

Boy, 

Bore  to  my  ear  the  Airs  of  Palestine,  — 
Not  to  the  poet,  but  the  man  I  bring 
In  friendship's  fearless  trust  my  offering  : 
How  much  it  lacks  I  feel,  and  thou  wilt  see, 
Yet  well  1  know  that  thou  hast  deemed  with 

me 
Life  all  too  earnest,  and  its  time  too  short 


For   dreamy    ease    and   Fancy's    graceful 

sport  ; 
And  girded  for  thy  constant  strife  with 

wrong, 

Like  Nehemiah  fighting  while  he  wrought 
The  broken  walls  of  Zion,  even  thy  song 
Hath  a  rude  martial  tone,  a  blow  in  every 
thought ! 


CHALKLEY   HALL 

Chalkley  Hall,  near  Frankford,  Pa.,  was  the 
residence  of  Thomas  Chalkley,  an  eminent  min 
ister  of  the  Friends'  denomination.  He  was  one 
of  the  early  settlers  of  the  Colony,  and  his  Jour 
nal,  which  was  published  in  1740,  presents  a 
quaint  but  beautiful  picture  of  a  life  of  unosten 
tatious  and  simple  goodness.  He  was  the  mas 
ter  of  a  merchant  vessel,  and,  in  his  visits  to 
the  West  Indies  and  Great  Britain,  omitted  no 
opportunity  to  labor  for  the  highest  interests  of 
his  fellow-men.  During1  a  temporary  residence 
in  Philadelphia,  in  the  summer  of  1838,  the 
quiet  and  beautiful  scenery  around  the  ancient 
village  of  Frankford  frequently  attracted  me 
from  the  heat  and  bustle  of  the  city.  I  have 
referred  to  my  youthful  acquaintance  with  his 
writing's  in  Snow-Hound. 

How  bland  and  sweet  the  greeting  of  this 

breeze 

To  him  who  flies 
From  crowded  street  and  red  wall's  weary 

gleam, 

Till  far  behind  him  like  a  hideous  dream 
The  close  dark  city  lies  ! 

Here,  while  the  market  murmurs,  while  men 
throng 

The  marble  floor 

Of  Mammon's  altar,  from  the  crush  and  din 
Of  the  world's  madness  let  me  gather  in 

My  better  thoughts  once  more. 

Oh,  once  again  revive,  while  on  my  ear 

The  cry  of  Gain 

And  low  hoarse  hum  of  Traffic  die  away, 
Ye  blessed  memories  of  my  early  day 

Like  sere  grass  wet  with  rain  ! 

Once  more  let  God's  green  earth  and  sunset 

air 

Old  feelings  waken  ; 
Through  weary  years  of  toil  and  strife  and 

ill. 


178 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


Oh,  let  me  feel  that  my  good  angel  still 
Hath  not  his  trust  forsaken. 

And  wall  do  time  and  place  befit  my  mood  : 

Beneath  the  arms 

Of  this  embracing  wood,  a  good  man  made 
His  home,  like  Abraham  resting  in  tLe  shade 

Of  Mamre's  lonely  palms. 

Here,  rich  with  autumn  gifts  of  countless 

years, 

The  virgin  soil 
Turned  from  the  share  he  guided,  and  in 

rain 
And  summer  sunshine  throve  the  fruits  and 

grain 
Which  blessed  his  honest  toil. 

Here,  from  his  voyages  on  the  stormy  seas, 

Weary  and  worn, 

He  came  to  meet  his  children  and  to  bless 
The  Giver  of  all  good  in  thankfulness 

And  praise  for  his  return. 

And  here  his  neighbors  gathered  in  to  greet 

Their  friend  again, 

Safe  from  the  wave  and  the  destroying  gales, 
Which   reap    untimely    green    Bermuda's 
vales, 

And  vex  the  Carib  main. 

To  hear  the  good  man  tell  of  simple  truth, 

Sown  in  an  hour 

Of  weakness  in  some  far-off  Indian  isle, 
From  the  parched  bosom  of  a  barren  soil, 

Raised  up  in  life  and  power  : 

How  at  those  gatherings  in  Barbadian  vales, 

A  tendering  love 
Came  o'er  him,  like  the  gentle  rain  from 

heaven, 
And  words  of  fitness  to  his  lips  were  given, 

And  strength  as  from  above  : 

How  the  sad  captive  listened  to  the  Word, 

Until  his  chain 

Grew  lighter,  and  his  wounded  spirit  felt 
The  healing  balm  of  consolation  melt 

Upon  its  life-long  pain  : 

How  the  armt'd  warrior  sat  him  down  to  hear 

Of  Peace  and  Truth, 

And  the  proud  ruler  and  his  Creole  dame, 
Jewelled  and  gorgeous  in  her  beauty  came, 

And  fair  and  bright-eyed  youth. 


Oh,  far  away  beneath  New  England's  sky.. 

Even  when  a  boy, 
Following  my  plough  by  Merrimac's  green 

shore, 
His  simple  record  I  have  pondered  o'er 

With  deep  and  quiet  joy. 

And    hence    this    scene,   in    sunset    glory 

warm,  — 
Its  woods  around, 
Its  still  stream  winding   on  in  light   and 

shade, 
Its   soft,   green   meadows  and  its  upland 

glade,  — 
To  me  is  holy  ground. 

And  dearer  far  than  haunts  where  Genius 

keeps 

His  vigils  still  ; 

Than  that  where  Avon's  son  of  song  is  laid, 
Or   Vaucluse    hallowed   by  its    Petrarch's 

shade, 
Or  Virgil's  laurelled  hill. 

To  the  gray  walls  of  fallen  Paraclete, 

To  Juliet's  urn, 

Fair  Arno  and  Sorrento's  orange-grove, 
Where  Tasso  sang,  let  young  Romance  and 
Love 

Like  brother  pilgrims  turn. 

But  here  a  deeper  and  serener  charm 

To  all  is  given  ; 

And  blessed  memories  of  the  faithful  dead 
O'er  wood  and  vale  and   meadow-stream 
have  shed 

The  holy  hues  of  Heaven  ! 


GONE 

ANOTHER  hand  is  beckoning  us, 

Another  call  is  given  ; 
And  glows  once  more  with  Angel-steps 

The  path  which  reaches  Heaven. 

Our  young  and  gentle  friend,  whose  smile 
Made  brighter  summer  hours, 

Amid  the  frosts  of  autumn  time 
Has  left  us  with  the  flowers. 

No  paling  of  the  cheek  of  bloom 

Forewarned  us  of  decay  ; 
No  shadow  from  the  Silent  Land 

Fell  round  our  sister's  wav. 


TO   RONGE 


The  light  of  her  young1  life  went  down, 

As  sinks  behind  the  hill 
The  glory  of  a  setting  star, 

Clear,  suddenly,  and  still. 

As  pure  and  sweet,  her  fair  brow  seemed 

Eternal  as  the  sky  ; 
And  like  the  brook's  low  song,  her  voice,  — 

A  sound  which  could  not  die. 

And  half  we  deemed  she  needed  not 

The  changing  of  her  sphere, 
To  give  to  Heaven  a  Shining  One, 

Who  walked  an  Angel  here. 

The  blessing  of  her  quiet  life 

Fell  on  us  like  the  dew  ; 
A.nd   good    thoughts  where   her   footsteps 
pressed 

Like  fairy  blossoms  grew. 

Sweet  promptings  unto  kindest  deeds 

Were  in  her  very  look  ; 
We  read  her  face,  as  one  who  reads 

A  true  and  holy  book  : 

The  measure  of  a  blessed  hymn, 
To  which  our  hearts  could  move  ; 

The  breathing  of  an  inward  psalm, 
A  canticle  of  love. 

We  miss  her  in  the  place  of  prayer, 
And  by  the  hearth-fire's  light  ; 

We  pause  beside  her  door  to  hear 

Once  more  her  sweet  "  Good-night !  " 

There  seems  a  shadow  on  the  day, 

Her  smile  no  longer  cheers  ; 
A  dimness  on  the  stars  of  night, 

Like  eyes  that  look  through  tears. 

Alone  unto  our  Father's  will 

One  thought  hath  reconciled  ; 
That  He  whose  love  exceedeth  ours 

Hath  taken  home  His  child. 

Fold  her,  O  Father  !  in  Thine  arms, 

And  let  her  henceforth  be 
A  messenger  of  love  between 

Our  human  hearts  and  Thee. 

Still  let  her  mild  rebuking  stand 

Between  us  and  the  wrong, 
And  her  dear  memory  serve  to  make 

Our  faith  in  Goodness  strong. 


And  grant  that  she  who,  trembling,  here 

Distrusted  all  her  powers, 
May  welcome  to  her  holier  home 

The  well-beloved  of  ours. 


TO    RONGE 

This  was  written  after  reading  the  powerful 
and  manly  protest  of  Johannes  Ronge  against 
the  "  pious  fraud  "  of  the  Bishop  of  Treves. 
The  bold  movement  of  the  young  Catholic  priest 
of  Prussian  Silesia  seemed  to  me  full  of  promise 
to  the  cause  of  political  as  well  as  religious  lib 
erty  in  Europe.  That  it  failed  was  due  partly 
to  the  faults  of  tht  reformer,  but  mainly  to  the 
disagreement  of  the  Liberals  of  Germany  upon 
a  matter  of  dogma,  which  prevented  them  from 
unity  of  action.  Ronge  was  born  in  Silesia  in 
1813  and  died  in  October,  1887.  His  autobiog 
raphy  was  translated  into  English  and  published 
in  London  in  1846. 

STRIKE  home,  strong-hearted  man  !     Down 

to  the  root 

Of  old  oppression  sink  the  Saxon  steel. 
Thy  work  is  to  hew  down.     In  God's  name 

then 

Put  nerve  into  thy  task.     Let  other  men 
Plant,  as  they  may,  that  better  tree  whose 

fruit 
The  wounded  bosom  of  the  Church  shall 

heal. 

Be  thou  the  image-breaker.     Let  thy  blows 
Fall  heavy  as  the  Suabian's  iron  hand, 
On  crown  or  crosier,  which  shall  interpose 
Between  thee  and  the  weal  of  Fatherland. 
Leave  creeds  to  closet  idlers.     First  of  all, 
Shake   thou  all  German   dream-land  with 

the  fall 

Of  that  accursed  tree,  whose  evil  trunk 
Was  spared  of   old   by  Erfurt's  stalwart 

monk. 
Fight  not  with  ghosts  and  shadows.     Let 

us  hear 
The  snap  of  chain-links.     Let  our  gladdened 

ear 
Catch  the  pale  prisoner's  welcome,  as  the 

light 
Follows  thy  axe-stroke,  through  his  cell  of 

night. 
Be  faithful  to  both  worlds  ;    nor  think  to 

feed 
Earth's  starving  millions  with  the  husks  of 

creed. 
Servant  of  Him  whose  mission  high  and  hoh 


i8o 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


Was  to  the  wronged,  the  sorrowing,  and  the 
lowly, 

Thrust  not  his  Eden  promise  from  our 
sphere, 

Distant  and  dim  beyond  the  blue  sky's 
span  ; 

Like  him  of  Patmos,  see  it,  now  and  here, 

The  New  Jerusalem  comes  down  to  man  ! 

Be  warned  by  Luther's  error.  Nor  like 
him, 

When  the  roused  Teuton  dashes  from  his 
limb 

The  rusted  chain  of  ages,  help  to  bind 

His  hands  for  whom  thou  claim'st  the  free 
dom  of  the  mind  ! 


CHANNING 

The  last  time  I  saw  Dr.  Charming  was  in  the 
summer  of  1841,  when,  in  company  with  my 
English  friend,  Joseph  Sturge,  so  well  known 
for  his  philanthropic  labors  and  liberal  political 
opinions,  I  visited  him  in  his  summer  residence 
in  Rhode  Island.  In  recalling  the  impressions 
of  that  visit,  it  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say, 
that  I  have  no  reference  to  the  peculiar  reli 
gious  opinions  of  a  man  whose  life,  beautifully 
and  truly  manifested  above  the  atmosphere  of 
sect,  is  now  the  world's  common  legacy. 

NOT  vainly  did  old  poets  tell, 
Nor  vainly  did  old  genius  paint 

God's  great  and  crowning  miracle, 
The  hero  and  the  saint ! 

For  even  in  a  faithless  day 

Can  we  our  sainted  ones  discern  ; 

And  feel,  while  with  them  on  the  way, 
Our  hearts  within  us  burn. 

And  thus  the  common  tongue  and  pen 
Which,    world -wide,    echo    Channing's 
fame, 

As  one  of  Heaven's  anointed  men, 
Have  sanctified  his  name. 

In  vain  shall  Rome  her  portals  bar, 
And  shut  from  him  her  saintly  prize, 

Whom,  in  the  world's  great  calendar, 
All  men  shall  canonize. 

By  Narragansett's  sunny  bay, 

Beneath  his  green  embowering  wood, 

To  me  it  seems  but  yesterday 
Since  at  his  side  I  stood. 


The  slopes  lay  green  with  summer  rainp, 
The  western  wind  blew  fresh  and  free 

And  glimmered  down  the  orchard  lanes 
The  white  surf  of  the  sea. 

With  us  was  one,  who,  calm  and  true, 
Life's  highest  purpose  understood, 

And,  like  his  blessed  Master,  knew 
The  joy  of  doing  good. 

Unlearned,  unknown  to  lettered  fame, 
Yet  on  the  lips  of  England's  poor 

And  toiling  millions  dwelt  his  name, 
With  blessings  evermore. 

Unknown  to  power  or  place,  yet  where 
The  sun  looks  o'er  the  Carib  sea, 

It  blended  with  the  freeman's  prayer 
And  song  of  jubilee. 

He  told  of  England's  sin  and  wrong, 
The  ills  her  suffering  children  know, 

The  squalor  of  the  city's  throng, 
The  green  field's  want  and  woe. 

O'er  Channing's  face  the  tenderness 

Of  sympathetic  sorrow  stole, 
Like  a  still  shadow,  passionless, 

The  sorrow  of  the  soul. 

But  when  the  generous  Briton  told 

How  hearts  were  answering  to  his  own, 

And  Freedom's  rising  murmur  rolled 
Up  to  the  dull-eared  throne, 

I  saw,  methought,  a  glad  surprise 

Thrill  through  that  frail  and  pain-worn 
frame, 

And,  kindling  in  those  deep,  calm  eyes, 
A  still  and  earnest  flame. 

His  few,  brief  words  were  such  as  move 
The  human  heart,  —  the  Faith-sown  seeds 

Which  ripen  in  the  soil  of  love 
To  high  heroic  deeds. 

No  bars  of  sect  or  clime  were  felt, 

The  Babel  strife  of  tongues  had  ceased, 

And  at  one  common  altar  knelt 
The  Quaker  and  the  priest. 

And  not  in  vain  :  with  strength  renewed, 
And  zeal  refreshed,  and  hope  less  dim, 

For  that  brief  meeting,  each  pursued 
The  path  allotted  him. 


TO  MY   FRIEND   ON   THE    DEATH   OF   HIS    SISTER 


181 


How  echoes  yet  each  Western  hill 

And  vale  with  Channing's  dying  word  ! 

How  are  the  hearts  of  freemen  stili 
By  that  great  warning  stirred  ! 

The  stranger  treads  his  native  soil, 
And  pleads,  with  zeal  unfelt  before, 

The  honest  right  of  British  toil, 
The  claim  of  England's  poor. 

Before  him  time-wrought  barriers  fall, 
Old  fears  subside,  old  hatreds  melt, 

And,  stretching  o'er  the  sea's  blue  wall, 
The  Saxon  greets  the  Celt. 

The  yeoman  on  the  Scottish  lines, 

The  Sheffield  grinder,  worn  and  griin, 

The  delver  in  the  Cornwall  mines, 
Look  up  with  hope  to  him. 

Swart  smiters  of  the  glowing  steel, 
Dark  feeders  of  the  forge's  flame, 

Pale  watchers  at  the  loom  and  wheel, 
Repeat  his  honored  name. 

And  thus  the  influence  of  that  hour 
Of  converse  on  Rhode  Island's  strand 

Lives  in  the  calm,  resistless  power 
Which  moves  our  fatherland. 

God  blesses  still  the  generous  thought, 
And  still  the  fitting  word  He  speeds, 

And  Truth,  at  His  requiring  taught, 
He  quickens  into  deeds. 

Where  is  the  victory  of  the  grave  ? 

What  dust  upon  the  spirit  lies  ? 
God  keeps  the  sacred  life  he  gave,  — 

The  prophet  never  dies  ! 


TO  MY  FRIEND  ON  THE  DEATH 
OF  HIS  SISTER 

Sophia  Sturge,  sister  of  Joseph  Sturge,  of 
Birmingham,  the  President  of  the  British  Com 
plete  Suffrage  Association,  died  in  the  6th 
month,  1845.  She  was  the  colleague,  counsel 
lor,  and  ever-ready  helpmate  of  her  brother 
in  all  his  vast  designs  of  beneficence.  The 
Birmingham  Pilot  says  of  her:  "Never,  per 
haps,  were  the  active  and  passive  virtues  of 
the  human  character  more  harmoniously  and 
beautifully  blended  than  in  this  excellent  wo- 


THINE  is  a  grief,  the  depth  of  which  an 
other 

May  never  know  ; 
Yet,  o'er  the  waters,  O  my  stricken  brother ! 

To  thee  I  go. 

I  lean  my  heart  unto  thee,  sadly  folding 

Thy  hand  in  mine  ; 

With  even  the  weakness  of  my  soul  uphold- 
ing 

The  strength  of  thine. 

I  never  knew,  like  thee,  the  dear  departed; 

I  stood  not  by 

When,  in  calm  trust,  the  pure  and  tranquil- 
hearted 

Lay  down  to  die. 

And  on  thy  ears  my  words  of  weak  condol 
ing 

Must  vainly  fall  : 

The  funeral  bell  which  in  thy  heart  is  toll 
ing, 
Sounds  over  all ! 

I  will  not  mock  thee  with  the  poor  world's 
common 

And  heartless  phrase, 
Nor  wrong  the  memory  of  a  sainted  woman 

With  idle  praise. 

With  silence  only  as  their  benediction, 

God's  angels  come 
Where,  in  the  shadow  of  a  great  affliction, 

The  soul  sits  dumb  ! 

Yet,  would  I  say  what  thy  own  heart  ap- 

proveth  : 

Our  Father's  will, 
Calling  to  Him  the  dear  one  whom  He  lov- 

•  eth, 
Is  mercy  still. 

Not  upon  thee  or  thine  the  solemn  angel 

Hath  evil  wrought : 
Her  funeral  anthem  is  a  glad  evangel,  — 

The  good  die  not  ! 

God  calls  our  loved  ones,  but  we  lose  not 

wholly 

What  He  hath  given  ; 
They  live  on  earth,  in  thought  and  deed,  d* 

truly 
As  in  His  heaven. 


182 


PERSONAL  POEMS 


And  she  is  with  thee  ;  in  thy  path  of  trial 

She  walketh  yet ; 
Still  with  the  baptism  of  thy  self-denial 

Her  locks  are  wet. 

Up,  then,  my  brother  !     Lo,  the  fields  of 

harvest 

Lie  white  in  view  ! 
She  lives  and  loves  thee,  and  the  God  thou 

servest 
To  both  is  true. 

Thrust  in  thy  sickle  !   England's  toilworn 

peasants 
Thy  call  abide  ; 
And  she  thou  mourn'st,  a  pure  and  holy 

presence, 
Shall  glean  beside  ! 


DANIEL   WHEELER 

Daniel  Wheeler,  a  minister  of  the  Society  of 
Friends,  who  had  labored  in  the  cause  of  his 
Divine  Master  in  Great  Britain,  Russia,  and 
the  islands  of  the  Pacific,  died  in  New  York  in 
the  spring  of  1840,  while  on  a  religious  visit  to 
this  country. 

O  DEARLY  loved  ! 

And  worthy  of  our  love  !     No  more 
Thy  aged  form  shall  rise  before 
The  hushed  and  waiting  worshipper, 
In  meek  obedience  utterance  giving 
To  words  of  truth,  so  fresh  and  living, 
That,  even  to  the  inward  sense, 
They  bore  unquestioned  evidence 
Of  an  anointed  Messenger  ! 
Or,  bowing  down  thy  silver  hair 
In  reverent  awfulness  of  prayer, 

The  world,  its  time  and  sense,  shut  out, 
The  brightness  of  Faith's  holy  trance 
Gathered  upon  thy  countenance, 

As  if  each  lingering  cloud  of  doubt, 
The  cold,  dark  shadows  resting  here 
In  Time's  unluminous  atmosphere, 

Were  lifted  by  an  angel's  hand, 
And  through  them  on  thy  spiritual  eye 
Shone  down  the  blessedness  on  high, 

The  glory  of  the  Better  Land  ! 

The  oak  has  fallen  ! 
While,  meet  for  no  good  work,  the  vine 
May  yet  its  worthless  branches  twine, 
Who  knoweth  not  that  with  thee  fell 
A  great  man  in  our  Israel  ? 


Fallen,  while  thy  loins  were  girded  still, 
Thy  feet  with  Zion's  dews  still  wet, 
And  in  thy  hand  retaining  yet 
The  pilgrim's  staff  and  scallop-shell ! 
Unharmed  and  safe,  where,  wild  and  free> 

Across  the  Neva's  cold  morass 
The  breezes  from  the  Frozen  Sea 

With  winter's  arrowy  keenness  pass  ; 
Or  where  the  unwarning  tropic  gale 
Smote  to  the  waves  thy  tattered  sail, 
Or  where  the  noon-hour's  fervid  heat 
Against  Tahiti's  mountains  beat  ; 

The  same  mysterious  Hand  which  gave 
Deliverance  upon  land  and  wave, 
Tempered  for  thee  the  blasts  which  blew 

Ladaga's  frozen  surface  o'er, 
And  blessed  for  thee  the  baleful  dew 

Of  evening  upon  Eimeo's  shore, 
Beneath  this  sunny  heaven  of  ours, 
Midst  our  soft  airs  and  opening  flowers 
Hath  given  thee  a  grave  ! 

His  will  be  done, 
Who  seeth  not  as  man,  whose  way 

Is  not  as  ours  !     'T  is  well  with  thee  ! 
Nor  anxious  doubt  nor  dark  dismay 
Disquieted  thy  closing  day, 
But,  evermore,  thy  soul  could  say, 

"  My  Father  careth  still  for  me  ! " 
Called  from  thy  hearth  and  home,  —  from 
her, 

The  last  bud  on  thy  household  tree, 
The  last  dear  one  to  minister 

In  duty  and  in  love  to  thee, 
From  all  which  nature  holdeth  dear, 

Feeble  with  years  and  worn  with  pain, 

To  seek  our  distant  land  again, 
Bound  in  the  spirit,  yet  unknowing 

The  things  which  should  befall  thee  here, 

Whether  for  labor  or  for  death, 
In  childlike  trust  serenely  going 

To  that  last  trial  of  thy  faith  ! 

Oh,  far  away, 
Where  never  shines  our  Northern  star 

On  that  dark  waste  which  Balboa  saw 
From  Darien's  mountains  stretching  far, 
So  strange,  heaven-broad,  and  lone,  that 

there, 
With  forehead  to  its  damp  wind  bare, 

He  bent  his  mailed  knee  in  awe  ; 
In  many  an  isle  whose  coral  feet 
The  surges  of  that  ocean  beat, 
In  thy  palm  shadows,  Oahu, 

And  Honolulu's  silver  bay, 


TO   FREDRIKA   BREMER 


183 


Amidst  Owyhee's  hills  of  blue, 

And  taro-plains  of  Tooboonai, 
Are  gentle  hearts,  which  long-  shall  be 
Sad  as  our  own  at  thought  of  thee, 
Worn  sowers  of  Truth's  holy  seed, 
Whose  souls  in  weariness  and  need 

Were    strengthened    and    refreshed   by 

thine. 
For  blessed  by  our  Father's  hand 

Was  thy  deep  love  and  tender  care, 

Thy  ministry  and  fervent  prayer,  — 
Grateful  as  Eshcol's  clustered  vine 
To  Israel  in  a  weary  land  ! 

And  they  who  drew 
By  thousands  round  thee,  in  the  hour 

Of  prayerful  waiting,  hushed  and  deep, 

That  He  who  bade  the  islands  keep 
Silence  before  Him,  might  renew 

Their   strength  with   His  unslumbering 

power, 
They  too  shall  mourn  that  thou  art  gone, 

That  nevermore  thy  aged  lip 
Shall  soothe  the  weak,  the  erring  warn, 
Of  those  who  first,  rejoicing,  heard 
Through  thee  the  Gospel's  glorious  word,  — 

Seals  of  thy  true  apostleship. 
And,  if  the  brightest  diadem, 

Whose  gems  of  glory  purely  burn 

Around  the  ransomed  ones  in  bliss, 
Be  evermore  reserved  for  them 

Who    here,   through    toil    and    sorrow, 
turn 

Many  to  righteousness, 
May  we  not  think  of  thee  as  wearing 
That  star-like  crown   of  light,  and   bear 
ing* 

Amidst  Heaven's  white  and  blissful  band, 
Th'  unfading  palm-branch  in  thy  hand  ; 
And  joining  with  a  seraph's  tongue 
In  that  new  song  the  elders  sung, 
Ascribing  to  its  blessed  Giver 
Thanksgiving,  love,  and  praise  forever ! 

Farewell  ! 

And  though  the  ways  of  Zion  mourn 
When  her  strong  ones  are  called  away, 
Who  like  thyself  have  calmly  borne 
The  heat  and  burden  of  the  day, 
Yet  He  who  slumbereth  not  nor  sleepeth 
His  ancient  watch  around  us  keepeth  ; 
Still,  sent  from  His  creating  hand, 
New  witnesses  for  Truth  shall  stand, 
New  instruments  to  sound  abroad 
The  Gospel  of  a  risen  Lord  ; 


To  gather  to  the  fold  once  more 
The  desolate  and  gone  astray, 
The  scattered  of  a  cloudy  day, 

And  Z ion's  broken  walls  restore  ; 
And,  through  the  travail  and  the  toil 

Of  true  obedience,  minister 
Beauty  for  ashes,  and  the  oil 

Of  joy  for  mourning,  unto  her  ! 
So  shall  her  holy  bounds  increase 
With  walls  of  praise  and  gates  of  peace  : 
So  shall  the  Vine,  which  martyr  tears 
And  blood  sustained  in  other  years, 

With  fresher  life  be  clothed  upon  ; 
And  to  the  world  in  beauty  show 
Like  the  rose-plant  of  Jericho, 

And  glorious  as  Lebanon  ! 


TO    FREDRIKA   BREMER 

It  is  proper  to  say  that  these  lines  are  the 
joint  impromptus  of  my  sister  and  myself.  They 
are  inserted  here  a?  an  expression  of  our  admira 
tion  of  the  g-if  ted  stranger  whom  we  have  since 
learned  to  love  as  a  friend. 

SEERESS  of  the  misty  Norland, 
Daughter  of  the  Vikings  bold, 

Welcome  to  the  sunny  Vineland, 
Which  thy  fathers  sought  of  old  I 

Soft  as  flow  of  Silja's  waters, 

When  the  moon  of  summer  shines, 

Strong  as  Winter  from  his  mountains 
Roaring  through  the  sleeted  pines. 

Heart  and  ear,  we  long  have  listened 

To  thy  saga,  rune,  and  song  ; 
As  a  household  joy  and  presence 

We  have  known  and  loved  thee  long. 

By  the  mansion's  marble  mantel, 

Round  the  log-walled  cabin's  hearth, 

Thy  sweet  thoughts  and  northern  fancies 
Meet  and  mingle  with  our  mirth. 

And  o'er  weary  spirits  keeping 

Sorrow's  night-watch,  long  and  chill. 

Shine  they  like  thy  sun  of  summer 
Over  midnight  vale  and  hill. 

We  alone  to  thee  are  strangers, 
Thou  our  friend  and  teacher  art ; 

Come,  and  know  us  as  we  know  thee  ; 
Let  us  meet  thee  heart  to  heart ! 


i84 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


To  our  homes  and  household  altars 
We,  in  turn,  thy  steps  would  lead, 

As  thy  loving  hand  has  led  us 
O'er  the  threshold  of  the  Swede. 


TO   AVIS    KEENE 

ON   RECEIVING  A  BASKET  OF  SEA-MOSSES 

THANKS  for  thy  gift 

Of  ocean  flowers, 
Born  where  the  golden  drift 
Of  the  slant  sunshine  falls 
Down  the  green,  tremulous  walls 
Of  water,  to  the  cool,  still  coral  bowers, 
Where,    under    rainbows    of    perpetual 

showers, 

God's  gardens  of  the  deep 
His  patient  angels  keep  ; 
Gladdening  the  dim,  strange  solitude 
With  fairest  forms  and  hues,  and  thus 
Forever  teaching  us 

The  lesson  which  the  many-colored  skies, 
The  flowers,  and  leaves,  and  painted  butter 
flies, 
The  deer's  branched  antlers,  the  gay  bird 

that  flings 

The  tropic  sunshine  from  its  golden  wings, 
The  brightness  of  the  human  countenance, 
Its  play  of  smiles,  the  magic  of  a  glance, 
Forevermore  repeat, 
In  varied  tones  and  sweet, 
That  beauty,  in  and  of  itself,  is  good. 

O  kind  and  generous  friend,  o'er  whom 
The  sunset  hues  of  Time  are  cast, 
Painting,  upon  the  overpast 
And  scattered  clouds  of  noonday  sorrow 
The  promise  of  a  fairer  morrow, 
A.n  earnest  of  the  better  life  to  come  ; 
The  binding  of  the  spirit  broken, 
The  warning  to  the  erring  spoken, 

The  comfort  of  the  sad, 
The  eye  to  see,  the  hand  to  cull 
Of  common  things  the  beautiful, 

The  absent  heart  made  glad 
By  simple  gift  or  graceful  token 
Of  love  it  needs  as  daily  food, 
All  own  one  Source,  and  all  are  good  ! 
Hence,  trucking  sunny  cove  and  reach, 
Where    spent    waves    glimmer   up    the 

beach, 

And  toss  their  gifts  of  weed  and  shell 
From  foamy  curve  and  combing  swell, 


No  unbefitting  task  was  thine 

To  weave  these   flowers  so   soft  and 

fair 
In  unison  with  His  design 

Who  loveth  beauty  everywhere  ; 
And  makes  in  every  zone  and  clime, 

In  ocean  and  in  upper  air, 
"  All  things  beautiful  in  their  time." 

For  not  alone  in  tones  of  awe  and  power 

He  speaks  to  man  ; 

The  cloudy  horror  of  the  thunder-shower 
His  rainbows  span  ; 
And  where  the  caravan 
Winds  o'er  the  desert,  leaving,  as  in  air 
The  crane-flock  leaves,  no  trace  of  passage 

there, 

He  gives  the  weary  eye 
The   palm-leaf    shadow  for  the   hot  noon 

hours, 

And  on  its  branches  dry 
Calls  out  the  acacia's  flowers  ; 
And  where  the  dark  shaft  pierces  down 

Beneath  the  mountain  roots, 
Seen  by  the  miner's  lamp  alone, 
The  star-like  crystal  shoots  ; 
So,  where,  the  winds  and  waves  below, 
The  coral-branched  gardens  grow, 
His  climbing  weeds  and  mosses  show, 
Like  foliage,  on  each  stony  bough, 
Of  varied  hues  more  strangely  gay 
Than  forest  leaves  in  autumn's  day  ;  — 
Thus  evermore, 
On  sky,  and  wave,  and  shore, 
An  all-pervading  beauty  seems  to  say  : 
God's  love  and  power  are  one  ;    and 

they, 
Who,  like  the  thunder  of  a  sultry  day, 

Smite  to  restore, 

And  they,  who,  like  the  gentle  wind,  uplift 
The  petals  of  the  dew- wet  flowers,  and  drift 

Their  perfume  on  the  air, 
Alike  may  serve  Him,  each,  with  their  owr 

gift, 
Making  their  lives  a  prayer  ! 

THE    HILL-TOP 

THE  burly  driver  at  my  side, 
We  slowly  climbed  the  hill, 

Whose  summit,  in  the  hot  noontide, 
Seemed  rising,  rising  still. 

At  last,  our  short  noon-shadows  hid 
The  top-stone,  bare  and  brown, 


ELLIOTT 


From  whence,  like  Gizeh's  pyramid, 
The  rough  mass  slanted  down. 

I  felt  the  cool  breath  of  the  North  ; 

Between  me  and  the  sun, 
O'er  deep,  still  lake,  and  ridgy  earth, 

I  saw  the  cloud-shades  run. 
Before  me,  stretched  for  glistening  miles, 

Lay  mountain-girdled  Squam  ; 
Like  green-winged  birds,  the  leafy  isles 

Upon  its  bosom  swam. 

And,   glimmering    through    the    sun-haze 
warm, 

Far  as  the  eye  could  roam, 
Dark  billows  of  an  earthquake  storm 

Beflecked  with  clouds  like  foam, 
Their  vales  in  misty  shadow  deep, 

Their  rugged  peaks  in  shine, 
I  saw  the  mountain  ranges  sweep 

The  horizon's  northern  line. 

There  towered  Chocorua's  peak  ;  and  west, 

Moosehillock's  woods  were  seen, 
With  many  a  nameless  slide-scarred  crest 

And  pine-dark  gorge  between. 
Beyond  them,  like  a  sun-rimmed  cloud, 

The  great  Notch  mountains  shone, 
Watched  over  by  the  solemn-browed 

And  awful  face  of  stone  ! 

"  A  good  look-off  ! "  the  driver  spake  : 

"  About  this  time  last  year, 
I  drove  a  party  to  the  Lake, 

And  stopped,  at  evening,  here. 
'T  was  duskish  down  below  ;  but  all 

These  hills  stood  in  the  sun, 
Till,  dipped  behind  yon  purple  wall, 

He  left  them,  one  by  one. 

"  A  lady,  who,  from  Thornton  hill, 

Had  held  her  place  outside, 
And,  as  a  pleasant  woman  will, 

Had  cheered  the  long,  dull  ride, 
Besought  me,  with  so  sweet  a  smile, 

That  —  though  I  hate  delays  — 
I  could  not  choose  but  rest  awhile,  — 

(These  women  have  such  ways  !) 

"On  yonder  mossy  ledge  she  sat, 

Her  sketch  upon  her  knees, 
A  stray  brown  lock  beneath  her  hat 

Unrolling  in  the  breeze  ; 
Her  sweet  face,  in  the  sunset  light 


Upraised  and  glorified,  — 
I  never  saw  a  prettier  sight 
In  all  my  mountain  ride. 

"  As  good  as  fair  ;  it  seemed  her  joy 

To  comfort  and  to  give  ; 
My  poor,  sick  wife,  and  cripple  boy, 

Will  bless  her  while  they  live  !  " 
The  tremor  in  the  driver's  tone 

His  manhood  did  not  shame  : 
"  I  dare  say,  sir,  you  may  have  known"- 

He  named  a  well-known  name. 

Then  sank  the  pyramidal  mounds, 

The  blue  lake  fled  away  ; 
For  mountain-scope  a  parlor's  bounds, 

A  lighted  hearth  for  day  ! 
From  lonely  years  and  weary  miles 

The  shadows  fell  apart  ; 
Kind  voices  cheered,  sweet  human  smiles 

Shone  warm  into  my  heart. 

We  journeyed  on  ;  but  earth  and  sky 

Had  power  to  charm  no  more  ; 
Still  dreamed  my  inward-turning  eye 

The  dream  of  memory  o'er. 
Ah  !  human  kindness,  human  love,  — 

To  few  who  seek  denied  ; 
Too  late  we  learn  to  prize  above 

The  whole  round  world  beside  ! 


ELLIOTT 

Ebenezer  Elliott  was  to  the  artisans  of  Eng 
land  what  Burns  was  to  the  peasantry  of  Scot 
land.  His  Corn-law  Rhymes  contributed  not  a 
little  to  that  overwhelming  tide  of  popular 
opinion  and  feeling-  which  resulted  in  the  repeal 
of  the  tax  on  bread.  Well  has  the  eloquent 
author  of  The  Reforms  and  Reformers  of  Great 
Britain  said  of  him,  "  Not  corn-law  repealer? 
alone,  but  all  Britons  who  moisten  their  scanty 
bread  with  the  sweat  of  the  brow,  are  largely 
indebted  to  his  inspiring1  lay,  for  the  mighty 
bound  which  the  laboring  mind  of  Englanu 
has  taken  in  our  day." 

HANDS  off  !  thou  tithe-fat  plunderer  !  play 

No  trick  of  priestcraft  here  ! 
Back,  puny  lordling  !  darest  thou  lay 

A  hand  on  Elliott's  bier  ? 
Alive,  your  rank  and  pomp,  as  dust, 

Beneath  his  feet  he  trod  : 
He  knew  the  locust  swarm  that  cursed 

The  harvest-fields  of  God. 


1 86 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


On  these  pale  lips,  the  smothered  thought 

Which  England's  millions  feel. 
A  fierce  and  fearful  splendor  caught, 

As  from  his  forge  the  steel. 
Strong-armed  as  Tlior,  a  shower  of  fire 

His  smitten  anvil  flung  ; 
God's  curse,  Earth's  wrong,  dumb  Hunger's 
ire, 

He  gave  them  all  a  tongue  i 

Then  let  the  poor  man's  horny  hands 

Bear  up  the  mighty  dead, 
And  labor's  swart  and  stalwart  bands 

Behind  as  mourners  tread. 
Leave  cant  and  craft  their  baptized  bounds, 

Leave  rank  its  minster  floor  ; 
Give  England's  green  and  daisied  grounds 

The  poet  of  the  poor  ! 

Lay  down  upon  his  Sheaf's  green  verge 

That  brave  old  heart  of  oak, 
With  fitting  dirge  from  sounding  forge, 

And  pall  of  furnace  smoke  ! 
Where  whirls  the  stone  its  dizzy  rounds, 

And  axe  and  sledge  are  swung, 
And,  timing  to  their  stormy  sounds, 

His  stormy  lays  are  sung. 

There  let  the  peasant's  step  be  heard, 

The  grinder  chant  his  rhyme  ; 
Nor  patron's  praise  nor  dainty  word 

Befits  the  man  or  time. 
No  soft  lament  nor  dreamer's  sigh 

For  him  whose  words  were  bread  ; 
The  Runic  rhyme  and  spell  whereby 

The  food  less  poor  were  fed  ! 

Pile  up  the  tombs  of  rank  and  pride, 

O  England,  as  thou  wilt  ! 
With  pomp  to  nameless  worth  denied, 

Emblazon  titled  guilt ! 
No  part  or  lot  in  these  we  claim  ; 

But,  o'er  the  sounding  wave, 
A  common  right  to  Elliott's  name, 

A  freehold  in  his  grave  ! 

ICHABOD 

This  poem  was  the  outcome  of  the  surprise 
and  grief  and  forecast  of  evil  consequences 
which  I  felt  on  reading  the  seventh  of  March 
speech  of  Daniel  Webster  in  support  of  the 
''compromise,"  and  the  Fugitive  Slave  Law. 
No  partisan  or  personal  enmity  dictated  it. 
On  the  contrary  my  admiration  of  the  splendid 
personality  and  intellectual  power  of  the  great 


Senator  was  never  stronger  than  when  I  laid 
down  his  speech,  and,  in  one  of  the  saddest 
moments  of  my  life,  penned  my  protest.  I 
saw,  as  I  wrote,  with  painrul  clearness  its  sure 
results,  —  the  Slave  Power  arrogant  and  defi 
ant,  strengthened  and  encouraged  to  carry  out 
its  scheme  for  the  extension  of  its  baleful  sys 
tem,  or  the  dissolution  of  the  Union,  the  guar 
anties  of  personal  liberty  in  the  free  States 
broken  down,  and  the  whole  country  made  the 
hunting-ground  of  slave-catchers.  In  the  hor 
ror  of  such  a  vision,  so  soou  fearfully  fulfilled, 
if  one  spoke  at  all,  he  could  only  speak  in  tones 
of  stern  and  sorrowful  rebuke. 

But  death  softens  all  resentments,  and  the 
consciousness  of  a  common  inheritance  of  frail 
ty  and  weakness  modifies  the  severity  of 
judgment.  Years  after,  in  The  Lost  Occasion, 
I  gave  utterance  to  an  almost  universal  regret 
that  the  great  statesman  did  not  live  to  see  the 
flag  which  he  loved  trampled  under  the  feet  of 
Slavery,  and,  in  view  of  this  desecration,  make 
his  last  days  glorious  in  defence  of  u  Liberty 
and  Union,  one  and  inseparable." 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn 

Which  once  he  wore  ! 
The  glory  from  his  gray  hairs  gone 

Forevermore  ! 

Revile  him  not,  the  Tempter  hath 

A  snare  for  all  ; 
And  pitying  tears,  not  scorn  and  wrath, 

Befit  his  fall ! 

Oh,  dumb  be  passion's  stormy  rage, 

When  he  who  might 
Have  lighted  up  and  led  his  age, 

Falls  back  in  night. 

Scorn  !  would  the  angels  laugh,  to  mark 

A  bright  soul  driven, 
Fiend-goaded,  down  the  endless  dark, 

From  hope  and  heaven  ! 

Let  not  the  land  once  proud  of  him 

Insult  him  now, 
Nor  brand  with  deeper  shame  his  dim, 

Dishonored  brow. 

But  let  its  humbled  sons,  instead, 

From  sea  to  lake, 
A  long  lament,  as  for  the  dead, 

In  sadness  make. 

Of  all  we  loved  and  honored,  naught 
Save  power  remains  : 


THE  LOST  OCCASION 


187 


A  fallen  angel's  pride  of  thought, 
Still  strong  in  chains. 

All  else  is  gone  ;  from  those  great  eyes 

The  soul  has  fled  : 
When  faith  is  lost,  when  honor  dies, 

The  man  is  dead  ! 

Then,  pay  the  reverence  of  old  days 

To  his  dead  fame  ; 
Walk  backward,  with  averted  gaze, 

And  hide  the  shame  ! 


THE   LOST   OCCASION 

SOME  die  too  late  and  some  too  soon, 
At  early  morning,  heat  of  noon, 
Or  the  chill  evening  twilight.     Thou, 
Whom  the  rich  heavens  did  so  endow 
With    eyes    of     power    and    Jove's    own 

brow, 

With  all  the  massive  strength  that  fills 
Thy  home-horizon's  granite  hills, 
With  rarest  gifts  of  heart  and  head 
From  manliest  stock  inherited, 
New  England's  stateliest  type  of  man, 
In  port  and  speech  Olympian  ; 
Whom  no  one  met,  at  first,  but  took 
A  second  awed  and  wondering  look 
(As  turned,  perchance,  the  eyes  of  Greece 
On  Phidias'  unveiled  masterpiece)  ; 
Whose  words  in  simplest  homespun  clad, 
The  Saxon  strength  of  Csedmon's  had, 
With  power  reserved  at  need  to  reach 
The  Roman  forum's  loftiest  speech, 
Sweet  with  persuasion,  eloquent 
In  passion,  cool  in  argument, 
Or,  ponderous,  falling  on  thy  foes 
As  fell  the  Norse  god's  hammer  blows, 
Crushing  as  if  with  Talus'  flail 
Through  Error's  logic-woven  mail, 
And  failing  only  when  they  tried 
The  adamant  of  the  righteous  side,  — 
Thou,  foiled  in  aim  and  hope,  bereaved 
Of  old  friends,  by  the  new  deceived, 
Too  soon  for  us,  too  soon  for  tliee, 
Beside  thy  lonely  Northern  sea, 
Where  long  and  low  the  marsh-lands  spread, 
Laid  wearily  down  thy  august  head. 

Thou  shouldst  have  lived  to  feel  below 
Thy  feet  Disunion's  fierce  upthrow  ; 


The  late-sprung  mine  that  underlaid 

Thy  sad  concessions  vainly  made. 

Thou  shouldst  have   seen  from    Su niter's 

wall 

The  star-flag  of  the  Union  fall, 
And  armed  rebellion  pressing  on 
The  broken  lines  of  Washington  ! 
No  stronger  voice  than  thine  had  then 
Called  out  the  utmost  might  of  men, 
To  make  the  Union's  charter  free 
And  strengthen  law  by  liberty. 
How  had  that  stern  arbitrament 
To  thy  gray  age  youth's  vigor  lent, 
Shaming  ambition's  paltry  prize 
Before  thy  disillusioned  eyes  ; 
Breaking  the  spell  about  thee  wound 
Like     the     green     withes     that      Samson 

bound  ; 

Redeeming  in  one  effort  grand, 
Thyself  and  thy  imperilled  land  ! 
Ah,  cruel  fate,  that  closed  to  thee, 
O  sleeper  by  the  Northern  sea, 
The  gates  of  opportunity  ! 
God  fills  the  gaps  of  human  need, 
Each  crisis  brings  its  word  and  deed. 
Wise  men  and  strong  we  did  not  lack  ; 
But  still,  with  memory  turning  back, 
In  the  dark  hours  we  thought  of  thee, 
And  thy  lone  grave  beside  the  sea. 

Above  that  grave  the  east  winds  blow, 

And  from  the  marsh-lands  drifting  slow 

The  sea-fog  comes,  with  evermore 

The  wave-wash  of  a  lonely  shore, 

And  sea-bird's  melancholy  cry, 

As  Nature  fain  would  typify 

The  sadness  of  a  closing  scene, 

The  loss  of  that  which  should  have  been. 

But,  where  thy  native  mountains  bare 

Their  foreheads  to  diviner  air, 

Fit  emblem  of  enduring  fame, 

One  lofty  summit  keeps  thy  name. 

For  thee  the  cosmic  forces  did 

The  rearing  of  that  p}rramid, 

The  prescient  ages  shaping  with 

Fire,  flood,  and  frost  thy  monolith. 

Sunrise  and  sunset  lay  thereon 

With  hands  of  light  their  benison, 

The  stars  of  midnight  pause  to  set 

Their  jewels  in  its  coronet. 

And  evermore  that  mountain  mass 

Seems  climbing  from  the  shadowy  pass 

To  light,  as  if  to  manifest 

Thy  nobler  self,  thy  life  at  best ! 


PERSONAL  POEMS 


WORDSWORTH 

WRITTEN   ON   A   BLANK    LEAF   OF   HIS 
MEMOIRS 

DEAR  friends,  who  read  the  world  aright, 
And  in  its  common  forms  discern 

A.  beauty  and  a  harmony 
The  many  never  learn  ! 

Kindred  in  soul  of  him  who  found 
In  simple  flower  and  leaf  and  stone 

The  impulse  of  the  sweetest  lays 
Our  Saxon  tongue  has  known,  — 

Accept  this  record  of  a  life 

As  sweet  and  pure,  as  calm  and  good. 
As  a  long  day  of  blandest  June 

In  green  field  and  in  wood. 

How  welcome  to  our  ears,  long  pained 
By  strife  of  sect  and  party  noise, 

The  brook-like  murmur  of  his  song 
Of  nature's  simple  joys  ! 

The  violet  by  its  mossy  stone, 

The  primrose  by  the  river's  brim, 

And  chance-sown  daffodil,  have  found 
Immortal  life  through  him. 

The  sunrise  on  his  breezy  lake, 
The  rosy  tints  his  sunset  brought, 

World-seen,  are  gladdening  all  the  vales 
And  mountain-peaks  of  thought. 

Art  builds  on  sand  ;  the  works  of  pride 
And  human  passion  change  and  fall  ; 

But  that  which  shares  the  life  of  God 
With  Him  surviveth  all. 

TO 

LINES  WRITTEN   AFTER  A  SUMMER  DAY'S 
EXCURSION 

FAIR  Nature's  priestesses  !  to  whom, 
In  hieroglyph  of  bud  and  bloom, 

Her  mysteries  are  told  ; 
Who,  wise  in  lore  of  wood  and  mead, 
The  seasons'  pictured  scrolls  can  read, 

In  lessons  manifold  ! 

Thanks  for  the  courtesy,  and  gay 
Good-humor,  which  on  Washing  Day 
Our  ill-timed  visit  bore  ; 


Thanks  for  your  graceful  oars,  which  broke 
The  morning  dreams  of  Artichoke, 
Along  his  wooded  shore  ! 

Varied  as  varying  Nature's  ways, 
Sprites  of  the  river,  woodland  fays, 

Or  mountain  nymphs,  ye  seem  ; 
Free-limbed  Dianas  on  the  green, 
Loch  Katrine's  Ellen,  or  Undine, 

Upon  your  favorite  stream. 

The  forms  of  which  the  poets  told, 
The  fair  benignities  of  old, 

Were  doubtless  such  as  you  ; 
What  more  than  Artichoke  the  rill 
Of  Helicon  ?     Than  Pipe-stave  hill 

Arcadia's  mountain- view  ? 

No  sweeter  bowers  the  bee  delayed, 
In  wild  Hymettus'  scented  shade, 

Than  those  you  dwell  among  ; 
Snow-flowered  azaleas,  intertwined 
WTith  roses,  over  banks  inclined 

With  trembling  harebells  hung1 ! 

A  charmed  life  unknown  to  death, 
Immortal  freshness  Nature  hath  ; 

Her  fabled  fount  and  glen 
Are  now  and  here  :  Dodona's  shrine 
Still  murmurs  in  the  wind-swept  pine, — 

All  is  that  e'er  hath  been. 

The  Beauty  which  old  Greece  or  Rome 
Sung,  painted,  wrought,  lies  close  at  home  j 

We  need  but  eye  and  ear 
In  all  our  daily  walks  to  trace 
The  outlines  of  incarnate  grace, 

The  hymns  of  gods  to  hear  ! 


IN    PEACE 

A  TRACK  of  moonlight  on  a  quiet  lake, 
Whose  small  waves   on  a  silver-sanded 

shore 
Whisper  of  peace,  and  with  the  low  winds 

make 

Such  harmonies  as  keep  the  woods  awake, 
And  listening  all  night  long  for  their  sweet 

sake  ; 
A  green-waved  slope  of  meadow,  hovered 

o'er 

By  angel-troops  of  lilies,  swaying  light 
On  viewless   stems,  with  folded  wings  of 

white ; 


KOSSUTH 


189 


A  slumberous  stretch  of  mountain-land,  far 

seen 
Where  the  low  westering  day,  with  gold 

and  green, 

Purple  and  amber,  softly  blended,  fills 
The  wooded  vales,  and  melts  among  the 

hills  ; 

A  vine-fringed  river,  winding  to  its  rest 
On  the  calm  bosom  of  a  stormless  sea, 
Bearing  alike  upon  its  placid  breast, 
Witli  earthly  flowers  and  heavenly  stars  im 
pressed, 

The  hues  of  time  and  of  eternity  : 
Such  are  the  pictures  which  the  thought  of 

thee, 
O  friend,  awakeneth,  —  charming  the  keen 

pain 

Of  thy  departure,  and  our  sense  of  loss 
Requiting  with  the  fullness  of  thy  gain. 
Lo  !    on  the  quiet  grave  thy  life-borne 

cross, 
Dropped  only  at  its  side,  methinks  doth 

shine, 
Of  thy  beatitude  the  radiant  sign  ! 

No  sob  of  grief,  no  wild  lament  be  there, 
To  break  the  Sabbath  of  the  holy  air  ; 
But,   in   their   stead,   the   silent-breathing 

prayer 

Of  hearts  still  waiting  for  a  rest  like  thine. 
O  spirit  redeemed  !     Forgive  us,  if  hence 
forth, 

With  sweet  and  pure  similitudes  of  earth, 
We  keep  thy  pleasant  memory  freshly 

green, 
Of  love's  inheritance  a  priceless  part, 

Which  Fancy's  self,  in  reverent  awe,  is 

seen 

To  paint,  forgetful  of  the  tricks  of  art, 
With  pencil  dipped  alone  in  colors  of  the 
heart. 


BENEDICITE 

GOD'S  love  and  peace  be  with  thee,  where 
Soe'er  this  soft  autumnal  air 
Lifts  the  dark  tresses  of  thy  hair  ! 

Whether  through  city  casements  comes 
Its  kiss  to  thee,  in  crowded  rooms, 
Or,  out  among  the  woodland  blooms, 

It  freshens  o'er  thy  thoughtful  face, 
Imparting,  in  its  glad  embrace, 
Beauty  to  beauty,  grace  to  grace  ! 


Fair  Nature's  book  together  read, 

The  old  wood-paths  that  knew  our  tread, 

The  maple  shadows  overhead, — 

The  hills  we  climbed,  the  river  seen 
By  gleams  along  its  deep  ravine, — 
All  keep  thy  memory  fresh  and  green. 

Where'er  I  look,  where'er  I  stray, 
Thy  thought  goes  with  me  on  my  way, 
And  hence  the  prayer  I  breathe  to-day  ; 

O'er  lapse  of  time  and  change  of  scene, 
The  weary  waste  which  lies  between 
Thyself  and  me,  my  heart  I  lean. 

Thou  lack'st  not  Friendship's  spell-word, 

nor 

The  half-unconscious  power  to  draw 
All  hearts  to  thine  by  Love's  sweet  law. 

With  these  good  gifts  of  God  is  cast 
Thy  lot,  and  many  a  charm  thou  hast 
To  hold  the  blessed  angels  fast. 

If,  then,  a  fervent  wisli  for  thee 

The  gracious  heavens  will  heed  from  me, 

What  should,  dear  heart,  its  burden  be  ? 

The  sighing  of  a  shaken  reed,  — 
What  can  I  more  than  meekly  plead 
The  greatness  of  our  common  need  ? 

God's  love,  —  unchanging,  pure,  and  true,— 
The  Paraclete  white-shining  through 
His  peace,  —  the  fall  of  Hermon's  dew  ! 

With  such  a  prayer,  on  this  sweet  day, 
As  thou  mayst  hear  and  I  may  say, 
I  greet  thee,  dearest,  far  away  ! 


KOSSUTH 

It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  say  that  there 
are  elements  in  the  character  and  passages  in 
the  history  of  the  great  Hungarian  statesman 
and  orator,  which  necessarily  command  the  ad 
miration  of  those,  even,  who  believe  that  no 
political  revolution  was  ever  worth  the  price  of 
human  blood. 

TYPE   of  two  mighty  continents  !  —  com 
bining 

The  strength  of  Europe  with  the  warmth 
and  glow 


290 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


Of  Asian  song  and  prophecy,  —  the  shining 
Of  Orient  splendors  over  Northern  snow  ! 
Who  shall  receive  him  ?      Who,  unblush 
ing,  speak 
Welcome  to  him,  who,  while  he  strove  to 

break 
The  Austrian  yoke  from   Magyar   necks, 

smote  off 

At  the  same  blow  the  fetters  of  the  serf, 
Rearing  the  altar  of  his  Fatherland 

On  the  firm  base  of  freedom,  and  thereby 

Lifting  to  Heaven  a  patriot's  stainless  hand, 

Mocked  not  the  God  of  Justice  with  a 

lie! 
Who  shall  be  Freedom's  mouthpiece  ?    Who 

shall  give 

Her  welcoming  cheer  to  the  great  fugitive  ? 
Not  he  who,  all  her  sacred  trusts  betray 
ing* 

Is  scourging  back  to  slavery's  hell  of  pain 
The  swarthy  Kossuths  of  our  land  again  ! 
Not  he  whose  utterance  now  from  lips  de 
signed 

The  bugle-march  of  Liberty  to  wind, 
And  call  her  hosts   beneath  the   breaking 

light, 

The  keen  reveille  of  ber  morn  of  fight, 
Is   but   the    hoarse   note   of   the   blood 
hound's  baying, 
The  wolf's  long  howl  behind  the  bondman's 

flight ! 

Oh  for  the  tongue  of  him  who  lies  at  rest 
In  Quincy's  shade  of  patrimonial  trees, 
Last  of  the  Puritan  tribunes  and  the  best, 
To  lend   a  voice  to  Freedom's  sympa 
thies, 

And  hail  the  coming  of  the  noblest  guest 
The  Old  World's  wrong  has  given  the  New 
World  of  the  West  ! 


TO   MY   OLD    SCHOOLMASTER 

AN   EPISTLE   NOT  AFTER   THE   MANNER 
OF    HORACE 

These  lines  were  addressed  to  my  worthy 
friend  Joshua  Coffin,  teacher,  historian,  and  an 
tiquarian.  He  was  one  of  the  twelve  persons 
who  with  William  Lloyd  Garrison  formed  the 
first  anti-slavery  society  in  New  England. 

OLD  friend,  kind  friend  !  lightly  down 
Drop  time's  snow-flakes  on  thy  crown  ! 
Never  be  thy  shadow  less, 


Never  fail  thy  cheerfulness  ; 
Care,  that  kills  the  cat,  may  plough 
Wrinkles  in  the  miser's  brow, 
Deepen  envy's  spiteful  frown, 
Draw  the  mouths  of  bigots  down, 
Plague  ambition's  dream,  and  sit 
H.'avy  on  the  hypocrite, 
Haunt  the  rich  man's  door,  and  ride 
In  the  gilded  coach  of  pride  ;  — 
Let  the  fiend  pass  !  —  what  can  he 
Find  to  do  with  such  as  thee  ? 
Seldom  comes  that  evil  guest 
Where  the  conscience  lies  at  rest, 
And  brown  health  and  quiet  wit 
Smiling  on  the  threshold  sit. 

I,  the  urchin  unto  whom, 
In  that  smoked  and  dingy  room, 
Where  the  district  gave  thee  rule 
O'er  its  ragged  winter  school, 
Thou  didst  teach  the  mysteries 
Of  those  weary  A  B  C's,  — 
Where,  to  fill  the  every  pause 
Of  thy  wise  and  learned  saws, 
Through  the  cracked  and  crazy  wall 
Came  the  cradle-rock  and  squall, 
And  the  goodman's  voice,  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife, — 
Luring  us  by  stories  old, 
With  a  comic  unction  told, 
More  than  by  the  eloquence 
Of  terse  birchen  arguments 
(Doubtful  gain,  I  fear),  to  look 
With  complacence  on  a  book  !  — 
Where  the  genial  pedagogue 
Half  forgot  his  rogues  to  flog, 
Citing  tale  or  apologue, 
Wise  and  merry  in  its  drift 
As  was  Phsedrus'  twofold  gift, 
Had  the  little  rebels  known  it, 
Risum  et  prudentiam  monet ! 
I,  — the  man  of  middle  years, 
In  whose  sable  locks  appears 
Many  a  warning  fleck  of  gray,  — 
Looking  back  to  that  far  day, 
And  thy  primal  lessons,  feel 
Grateful  smiles  my  lips  unseal, 
As,  remembering  thee,  I  blend 
Olden  teacher,  present  friend, 
Wise  with  antiquarian  search, 
In  the  scrolls  of  State  and  Church  , 
Named  on  history's  title-page, 
Parish-clerk  and  justice  sage  ; 
For  the  ferule's  wholesome  awe 
Wielding  now  the  sword  of  law. 


TO   MY   OLD   SCHOOLMASTER 


191 


Threshing  Time's  neglected  sheaves, 
Gathering  up  the  scattered  leaves 
Which  the  wrinkled  sibyl  cast 
Careless  from  her  as  she  passed,  — 
Twofold  citizen  art  thou, 
Freeman  of  the  past  and  now. 
He  who  bore  thy  name  of  old 
Midway  in  the  heavens  did  hold 
Over  Gibeon  moon  and  sun  ; 
Thou  hast  bidden  them  backward  run  ; 
Of  to-day  the  present  ray 
Flinging  over  yesterday  ! 

Let  the  busy  ones  deride 
What  I  deem  of  right  thy  pride : 
Let  the  fools  their  treadmills  grind, 
Look  not  forward  nor  behind, 
Shuffle  in  and  wriggle  out, 
Veer  with  every  breeze  about, 
Turning  like  a  windmill  sail, 
Or  a  dog  that  seeks  his  tail  ; 
Let  them  laugh  to  see  thee  fast 
Tabernacled  in  the  Past, 
Working  out  with  eye  and  lip 
Riddles  of  old  penmanship, 
Patient  as  Belzoni  there 
Sorting  out,  with  loving  care, 
Mummies  of  dead  questions  stripped 
From  their  sevenfold  manuscript ! 

Dabbling,  in  their  noisy  way, 

In  the  puddles  of  to-day, 

Little  know  they  of  that  vast 

Solemn  ocean  of  the  past, 

On  whose  margin,  wreck-bespread, 

Thou  art  walking  with  the  dead, 

Questioning  the  stranded  years, 

Waking  smiles  by  turns,  and  tears, 

As  thou  callest  up  again 

Shapes  the  dust  has  long  o'erlain,  — 

Fair-haired  woman,  bearded  man, 

Cavalier  and  Puritan  ; 

In  an  age  whose  eager  view 

Seeks  but  present  things,  and  new, 

Mad  for  party,  sect  and  gold, 

Teaching  reverence  for  the  old. 

On  that  shore,  with  fowler's  tact, 
Coolly  bagging  fact  on  fact, 
Naught  amiss  to  thee  can  float, 
Tale,  or  song,  or  anecdote  ; 
Village  gossip,  centuries  old, 
Scandals  by  our  grandams  told, 
What  the  pilgrim's  table  spread, 
Where  he  lived,  and  whom  he  wed, 


Long-drawn  bill  of  wine  and  beer 
For  his  ordination  cheer, 
Or  the  flip  that  wellnigh  made 
Glad  his  funeral  cavalcade  ; 
Weary  prose,  and  poet's  lines, 
Flavored  by  their  age,  like  wines, 
Eulogistic  of  some  quaint, 
Doubtful,  Puritanic  saint  ; 
Lays  that  quickened  husking  jigs, 
Jests  that  shook  grave  periwigs, 
When  the  parson  had  his  jokes 
And  his  glass,  like  other  folks  r. 
Sermons  that,  for  mortal  hours, 
Taxed  our  fathers'  vital  powers, 
As  the  long  nineteenthlies  poured 
Downward  from  the  sounding-board, 
And,  for  fire  of  Pentecost, 
Touched  their  beards  December's  frost 

Time  is  hastening  on,  and  we 
What  our  fathers  are  shall  be,  — • 
Shadow-shapes  of  memory  ! 
Joined  to  that  vast  multitude 
Where  the  great  are  but  the  good, 
And  the  mind  of  strength  shall  pr<m> 
Weaker  than  the  heart  of  love  ; 
Pride  of  graybeard  wisdom  less 
Than  the  infant's  guilelessness, 
And  his  song  of  sorrow  more 
Than  the  crown  the  Psalmist  wore  I 
Who  shall  then,  with  pious  zeal, 
At  our  moss-grown  thresholds  kneels 
From  a  stained  and  stony  page 
Reading  to  a  careless  age, 
With  a  patient  eye  like  thine, 
Prosing  tale  and  limping  line, 
Names  and  words  the  hoary  rime 
Of  the  Past  has  made  sublime  ? 
Who  shall  work  for  us  as  well 
The  antiquarian's  miracle  ? 
Who  to  seeming  life  recall 
Teacher  grave  and  pupil  small  ? 
Who  shall  give  to  thee  and  me 
Freeholds  in  futurity  ? 

Well,  whatever  lot  be  mine, 
Long  and  happy  days  be  thine, 
Ere  thy  full  and  honored  age 
Dates  of  time  its  latest  page  ! 
Squire  for  master,  State  for  school, 
Wisely  lenient,  live  and  rule  ; 
Over  grown-up  knave  and  rogue 
Play  the  watchful  pedagogue  ; 
Or,  while  pleasure  smiles  on  duty, 
At  the  call  of  youth  and  beauty, 


192 


PERSONAL  POEMS 


Speak  for  them  the  spell  of  law 
Which  shall  har  and  bolt  withdraw, 
And  the  flaming  sword  remove 
From  the  Paradise  of  Love. 
Still,  with  undimmed  eyesight,  pore 
Ancient  tome  and  record  o'er  ; 
Still  thy  week-day  lyrics  croon, 
Pitch  in  church  the  Sunday  tune, 
Showing  something,  in  thy  part, 
Of  the  old  Puritanic  art, 
Singer  after  Sternhold's  heart ! 
In  thy  pew,  for  many  a  year, 
Homilies  from  Oldbug  hear, 
Who  to  wit  like  that  of  South, 
And  the  Syrian's  golden  mouth, 
Doth  the  homely  pathos  add 
Which  the  pilgrim  preachers  had  ; 
Breaking,  like  a  child  at  play, 
Gilded  idols  of  the  day, 
Cant  of  knave  and  pomp  of  fool 
Tossing  with  his  ridicule, 
Yet,  in  earnest  or  in  jest, 
Ever  keeping  truth  abreast. 
And,  when  thou  art  called,  at  last, 
To  thy  townsmen  of  thi  past, 
Not  as  stranger  shalt  thou  come  ; 
Thou  shalt  find  thyself  at  home 
With  the  little  and  the  big, 
Woollen  cap  and  periwig, 
Madam  in  her  high-laced  ruff, 
Goody  in  her  home-made  stuff,  — 
Wise  and  simple,  rich  and  poor, 
Thou  hast  known  them  all  before  ! 


THE    CROSS 

Richard  Dillingham,  a  young  member  of  the 
Society  of  Friends,  died  in  the  Nashville  peni 
tentiary,  where  he  was  confined  for  the  act  of 
aiding  the  escape  of  fugitive  slaves. 

"  THE  cross,  if  rightly  borne,  shall  be 
No  burden,  but  support  to  thee  ;  " 
So,  moved  of  old  time  for  our  sake, 
The  holy  monk  of  Kempen  spake. 

Thou  brave  and  true  one  !  upon  whom 
Was  laid  the  cross  of  martyrdom, 
How  didst  thou,  in  thy  generous  youth, 
Bear  witness  to  this  blessed  truth  ! 

Thy  cross  of  suffering  and  of  shame 
A  staff  within  thy  hands  became, 


In  paths  where  faith  alone  could  see 
The  Master's  steps  supporting  thee. 

Thine  was  the  seed-time  ;  God  alone 
Beholds  the  end  of  what  is  sown  ; 
Beyond  our  vision,  weak  and  dim, 
The  harvest-time  is  hid  with  Him. 

Yet,  unforgotten  where  it  lies, 
That  seed  of  generous  sacrifice, 
Though  seeming  on  the  desert  cast, 
Shall  rise  with  bloom  and  fruit  at  last. 


THE    HERO 

The  hero  of  the  incident  related  in  this  poem 
was  Dr.  Samuel  Gridley  Howe,  the  well-known 
philanthropist,  who  when  a  young  man  volun 
teered  his  aid  in  the  Greek  struggle  for  inde 
pendence. 

"On  for  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear  ; 
My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear  ! 

"  Oh  for  the  white  plume  floating 
Sad  Zutphen's  field  above,  — 
The  lion  heart  in  battle, 

The  woman's  heart  in  love  ! 

"  Oh  that  man  once  more  were  manly, 
Woman's  pride,  and  not  her  scorn  : 
That  once  more  the  pale  young  mothei 
Dared  to  boast  '  a  man  is  born  ' ! 

"  But  now  life's  slumberous  current 

No  sun-bowed  cascade  wakes  ; 
No  tall,  heroic  manhood 
The  level  dulness  breaks. 

"  Oh  for  a  knight  like  Bayard, 
Without  reproach  or  fear  ! 
My  light  glove  on  his  casque  of  steel, 
My  love-knot  on  his  spear  !  " 

Then  I  said,  my  own  heart  throbbing 
To  the  time  her  proud  pulse  beat, 
"Life  hath  its  regal  natures  yet, 
True,  tender,  brave,  and  sweet  ! 

"  Smile  not,  fair  unbeliever  ! 

One  man,  at  least,  I  know. 
Who  might  wear  the  crest  of  Bayard 
Or  Sidney's  plume  of  snow- 


RANTOUL 


193 


u  Once,  when  over  purple  mountains 

Died  away  the  Grecian  sun, 
And  the  far  Cyllenian  ranges 

Paled  and  darkened,  one  by  one,  — 

"Fell  the  Turk,  a  bolt  of  thunder, 

Cleaving  all  the  quiet  sky, 
And  against  his  sharp  steel  lightnings 

Stood  the  Suliote  but  to  die. 

"  Woe  for  the  weak  and  halting  ! 

The  crescent  blazed  behind 
A  curving  line  of  sabres, 

Like  fire  before  the  wind  ! 

"  Last  to  fly,  and  first  to  rally, 

Rode  he  of  whom  I  speak, 
When,  groaning  in  his  bridle-path, 

Sank  down  a  wounded  Greek. 

"  With  the  rich  Albanian  costume 
Wet  with  many  a  ghastly  stain, 

Gazing  on  earth  and  sky  as  one 
Who  might  not  gaze  again  ! 

"  He  looked  forward  to  the  mountains, 
Back  on  foes  that  never  spare, 

Then  flung  him  from  his  saddle, 
And  placed  the  stranger  there. 

"  «  Allah  !  hu  ! '     Through  flashing  sabres, 
Through  a  stormy  hail  of  lead, 

The  good  Thessalian  charger 
Up  the  slopes  of  olives  sped. 

"  Hot  spurred  the  turbaned  riders  ; 

He  almost  felt  their  breath, 
Where  a  mountain  stream   rolled   darkly 
down 

Between  the  hills  and  death. 

"  One  brave  and  manful  struggle,  — 

He  gained  the  solid  land, 
And  the  cover  of  the  mountains, 

And  the  carbines  of  his  band  !  " 

"  It  was  very  great  and  noble," 
Said  the  moist-eyed  listener  then, 

"  But  one  brave  deed  makes  no  hero  ; 
Tell  me  what  he  since  hath  been  ! " 

"  Still  a  brave  and  generous  manhood, 

Still  an  honor  without  stain, 
In  the  prison  of  the  Kaiser, 

By  the  barricades  of  Seine. 


"  But  dream  not  helm  and  harness 

The  sign  of  valor  true  ; 
Peace  hath  higher  tests  of  manhood 

Than  battle  ever  knew. 

"  Wouldst  know  him  now  ?     Behold  him, 

The  Cadmus  of  the  blind, 
Giving  the  dumb  lip  language, 

The  idiot-clay  a  mind. 

"  Walking  his  round  of  duty 

Serenely  day  by  day, 
With  the  strong  man's  hand  of  labor 

And  childhood's  heart  of  play. 

"  True  as  the  knights  of  story, 

Sir  Lancelot  and  his  peers, 
Brave  in  his  calm  endurance 

As  they  in  tilt  of  spears. 

"  As  waves  in  stillest  waters, 

As  stars  in  noonday  skies, 
All  that  wakes  to  noble  action 

In  his  noon  of  calmness  lies. 

"  Wherever  outraged  Nature 

Asks  word  or  action  brave, 
Wherever  struggles  labor, 

Wherever  groans  a  slave,  — 

"  Wherever  rise  the  peoples, 

Wherever  sinks  a  throne, 
The  throbbing  heart  of  Freedom  finds 

An  answer  in  his  own. 

"  Knight  of  a  better  era, 

Without  reproach  or  fear  ! 
Said  I  not  well  that  Bayards 

And  Sidneys  still  are  here  ?  " 


RANTOUL 

No  more  fitting-  inscription  could  be  placed 
on  the  tombstone  of  Robert  Rantoul  than  this  • 
"  He  died  at  his  post  in  Congress,  and  his  last 
words  were  a  protest  in  the  name  of  Democracy 
against  the  Fugitive -Slave  Law." 

ONE  day,  along  the  electric  wire 
His  manly  word  for  Freedom  sped  ; 

We  came  next  morn  :  that  tongue  of  fire 
Said  only,  "  He  who  spake  is  dead  ! " 

Dead  !  while  his  voice  was  living  yet, 
In  echoes  round  the  pillared  dome ! 


194 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


Dead  !  while  his  blotted  page  lay  wet 
With  themes  of  state  and  loves  of  home  ! 

Dead  !  in  that  crowning  grace  of  time, 
That  triumph  of  life's  zenith  hour  ! 

Dead !    while   we  watched  his   manhood's 

prime 
Break  from  the  slow  bud  into  flower  ! 

Dead  !  he  so  great,  and  strong,  and  wise, 
While    the    mean   thousands   yet   drew 
breath  ; 

How  deepened,  through  that  dread  surprise, 
The  mystery  and  the  awe  of  death  ! 

From  the  high  place  whereon  our  votes 
Had  borne  him,  clear,  calm,  earnest,  fell 

His  first  words,  like  the  prelude  notes 
Of  some  great  anthem  yet  to  swell. 

We  seemed  to  see  our  flag  unfurled, 
Our  champion  waiting  in  his  place 

For  the  last  battle  of  the  world, 
The  Armageddon  of  the  race. 

Through  him  we  hoped  to  speak  the  word 
Which  wins  the  freedom  of  a  land  ; 

And  lift,  for  human  right,  the  sword 

Which  dropped  from  Hampden's  dying 
hand. 

For  he  had  sat  at  Sidney's  feet, 

Ana  walked  with  Pym  and  Vane  apart  ; 
And,  through  the  centuries,  felt  the  beat 

Of  Freedom's  march  in  Cromwell's 
heart. 

He  knew  the  paths  the  worthies  held, 
Where  England's  best  and  wisest  trod  ; 

And,   lingering,    drank    the    springs    that 

welled 
Beneath  the  touch  of  Milton's  rod. 

No  wild  enthusiast  of  the  right, 

Self-poised  and  clear,  he  showed  alway 

The  coolness  of  his  northern  night, 
The  ripe  repose  of  autumn's  day. 

His  steps  were  slow,  yet  forward  still 
He  pressed  where  others  paused  or  failed  ; 

The  calm  star  clomb  with  constant  will, 
The  restless  meteor  flashed  and  paled  I 

Skilled  in  its  subtlest  wile,  he  knew 
And  owned  the  higher  ends  of  Law  ; 


Still  rose  majestic  on  his  view 

The  awful  Shape  the  schoolman  saw. 

Her  home  the  heart  of  God  ;  her  voice 
The  choral  harmonies  whereby 

The  stars,  through  all  tlieir  spheres,  rejoice 
The  rhythmic  rule  of  earth  and  sky  ! 

We  saw  his  great  powers  misapplied 
To  poor  ambitions  ;  yet,  through  all, 

We  saw  him  take  the  weaker  side, 

And  right   the  wronged,  and   free    the 
thrall. 

Now,  looking  o'er  the  frozen  North, 
For  one  like  him  in  word  and  act, 

To  call  her  old,  free  spirit  forth, 

And  give  her  faith  the  life  of  fact,  — 

To  break  her  party  bonds  of  shame, 
And  labor  with  the  zeal  of  him 

To  make  the  Democratic  name 
Of  Liberty  the  synonyme,  — 

We  sweep  the  land  from  hill  to  strand, 
We  seek  the  strong,  the  wise,  the  brave, 

And,  sad  of  heart,  return  to  stand 
In  silence  by  a  new-made  grave  ! 

There,  where  his  breezy  hills  of  home 
Look  out  upon  bis  sail- white  seas, 

The  sounds  of  winds  and  waters  come, 
And    shape    themselves    to    words    like 
these: 

"  Why,  murmuring,  mourn  that  he,  whose 
power 

Was  lent  to  Party  over-long, 
Heard  the  still  whisper  at  the  hour 

He  set  his  foot  on  Party  wrong  ? 

"  The  human  life  that  closed  so  well 
No  lapse  of  folly  now  can  stain  : 

The  lips  whence  Freedom's  protest  fel 
No  meaner  thought  can  now  profane. 

"  Mightier  than  living  voice  his  grave 
That  lofty  protest  utters  o'er  ; 

Through  roaring  wind  and  smiting  wave 
It  speaks  his  hate  of  wrong  once  more. 

"  Men  of  the  North  !  your  weak  regret 
Is  wasted  here  ;  arise  and  pay 

To  freedom  and  to  him  your  debt, 

By  following  where  he  led  the  way  !  " 


WILLIAM   FORSTER 


195 


WILLIAM    FORSTER 

William  Forster,  of  Norwich.  England,  died 
in  East  Tennessee,  in  the  1st  month,  1854,  while 
engaged  in  presenting  to  the  governors  of  the 
States  of  this  Union  the  address  of  his  religious 
society  on  the  evils  of  slavery.  He  was  the 
relative  and  coadjutor  of  the  Buxtons,  Gurneys, 
and  Frys  ;  and  his  whole  life,  extending  almost 
to  threescore  and  ten  years,  was  a  pure  and 
beautiful  example  of  Christian  benevolence. 
He  had  travelled  over  Europe,  and  visited  most 
of  its  sovereigns,  to  plead  against  the  slave- 
trade  and  slavery  ;  and  had  twice  before  made 
visits  to  this  country,  tinder  impressions  of  re 
ligious  duty.  He  was  the  father  of  the  Right 
Hon.  William  Edward  Forster.  He  visited  my 
father's  house  in  Haverhill  during  his  first  tour 
in  the  United  States. 

THE  years  are  many  since  his  hand 

Was  laid  upon  my  head, 
Too  weak  and  young  to  understand 

The  serious  words  he  said. 

Yet  often  now  the  good  man's  look 

Before  me  seems  to  swim, 
As  if  some  inward  feeling  took 

The  outward  guise  of  him. 

As  if,  in  passion's  heated  war, 
Or  near  temptation's  charm, 

Through  him  the  low-voiced  monitor 
Forewarned  me  of  the  harm. 

Stranger  and  pilgrim  !  from  that  day 

Of  meeting,  first  and.  last, 
Wherever  Duty's  pathway  lay, 

His  reverent  steps  have  passed. 

The  poor  to  feed,  the  lost  to  seek, 

To  proffer  life  to  death, 
Hope  to  the  erring,  —  to  the  weak 

The  strength  of  his  own  faith. 

To  plead  the  captive's  right  ;  remove 
The  sting  of  hate  from  Law  ; 

And  soften  in  the  fire  of  love 
The  hardened  steel  of  War. 

He  walked  the  dark  world,  in  the  mild, 
Still  guidance  of  the  Light ; 

In  tearful  tenderness  a  child, 
A  strong  man  in  the  right. 


From  what  great  perils,  on  his  way, 
He  found,  in  prayer,  release  ; 

Through  what  abysmal  shadows  lay 
His  pathway  unto  peace, 

God  knoweth  :  we  could  only  see 
The  tranquil  strength  he  gained  ; 

The  bondage  lost  in  liberty, 
The  fear  in  love  unfeigned. 

And  I,  —  my  youthful  fancies  grown 

The  habit  of  the  man, 
Whose  field  of  life  by  angels  sown 

The  wilding  vines  o'erran,  — 

Low  bowed  in  silent  gratitude, 

My  manhood's  heart  enjoys 
That  reverence  for  the  pure  and  good 

Which  blessed  the  dreaming  boy's. 

Still  shines  the  light  of  holy  lives 

Like  star-beams  over  doubt  ; 
Each  sainted  memory,  Christlike,  drives 

Some  dark  possession  out. 

O  friend  !  O  brother  !  not  in  vain 

Thy  life  so  calm  and  true, 
The  silver  dropping  of  the  rain, 

The  fall  of  summer  dew  ! 

How  many  burdened  hearts  have  prayed 
Their  lives  like  thine  might  be  ! 

But  more  shall  pray  henceforth  for  aid 
To  lay  them  down  like  thee. 

With  weary  hand,  yet  steadfast  will, 

In  old  age  as  in  youth, 
Thy  Master  found  thee  sowing  still 

The  good  seed  of  His  truth. 

As  on  thy  task-field  closed  the  day 

In  golden-skied  decline, 
His  angel  mot  thee  on  the  way, 

And  lent  his  arm  to  thine. 

Thy  latest  care  for  man,  —  thy  last 
Of  earthly  thought  a  prayer,  — 

Oh,  who  thy  mantle,  backward  cast, 
Is  worthy  now  to  wear  ? 

Methinks  the  mound  which  marks  thy  bed 
Might  bless  our  land  and  save, 

As  rose,  of  old,  to  life  the  dead 

Who  touched  the  prophet's  grave  f 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


TO    CHARLES    SUMNER 

IF  I  have  seemed  more  prompt  to  censure 

wrong 
Than  praise  the  right  ;  if  seldom  to  thine 

ear 
My  voice  hath  mingled  with  the  exultant 

cheer 

Borne  upon  all  our  Northern  winds  along  ; 
If  I  have  failed  to  join  the  fickle  throng 
In   wide-eyed   wonder,  that  thou  standest 

strong 

In  victory,  surprised  in  thee  to  find 
Brougham's  scathing  power  with  Canning's 

grace  combined  ; 
That  he,  for    whom    the    ninefold    Muses 

sang, 
From   their   twined   arms  a  giant  athlete 

sprang, 

Barbing  the  arrows  of  his  native  tongue 
With   the    spent    shafts    Latona's    archer 

flung, 
To   smite   the    Python   of    our   land    and 

time, 

Fell  as  the  monster  born  of  Crissa's  slime, 
Like  the   blind    bard    who    in    Castaliau 

springs 
Tempered  the  steel  that  clove  the  crest  of 

kings, 
And  on  the  shrine   of  England's  freedom 

laid 

The  gifts  of  Cumse  and  of  Delphi's  shade,  — 
Small  need  hast  thou  of  words  of   praise 

from  me. 
Thou  knowest  my  heart,  dear  friend,  and 

well  canst  guess 
That,  even  though  silent,   I  have  not  the 

less 

Rejoiced  to  see  thy  actual  life  agree 
With  the  large  future  which  I  shaped  for 

thee, 

When,  years  ago,  beside  the  summer  sea, 
White  in  the  moon,  we  saw  the  long  waves 

fall 

Baffled  and  broken  from  the  rocky  wall, 
That,  to  the  menace  of  the  brawling  flood, 
Opposed  alone  its  massive  quietude, 
Calm  as  a  fate  ;  with  not  a  leaf  nor  vine 
Nor    birch-spray    trembling    in    the    still 

moonshine, 
Crowning  it  like  God's  peace.     I  sometimes 

think 

That   night  -scene   by  the  sea  prophet 
ical 


(For  Nature  speaks  in  symbols  and  in  signs, 
And    through    her    pictures    human    fate 

divines), 
That  rock,  wherefrom  we  saw  the  billows 

sink 
In  murmuring  rout,  uprising  clear  and 

tall 
In  the  white  light  of  heaven,  the  type  of 

one 

Who,  momently  by  Error's  host  assailed, 
Stands    strong    as    Truth,    in    greaves    of 

granite  mailed  ; 

And,  tranquil-fronted,  listening  over  all 
The  tumult,  hears   the   angels   say,  Well 

done  ! 

BURNS 

ON   RECEIVING   A    SPRIG  OF    HEATHER   IN 
BLOSSOM 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong 

To  Scottish  maid  and  lover  ; 
Sown  in  the  common  soil  of  song, 

They  bloom  the  wide  world  over. 

In  smiles  and  tears,  in  sun  and  showers, 
The  minstrel  and  the  heather, 

The  deathless  singer  and  the  flowers 
He  sang  of  live  together. 

Wild  heather-bells  and  Robert  Burns  ! 

The  moorland  flower  and  peasant ! 
How,  at  their  mention,  memory  turns 

Her  pages  old  and  pleasant ! 

The  gray  sky  wears  again  its  gold 

And  purple  of  adorning, 
And  manhood's  noonday  shadows  hold 

The  dews  of  boyhood's  morning. 

The  dews  that  washed  the  dust  and  soil 
From  off  the  wings  of  pleasure, 

The  sky,  that  flecked  the  ground  of  toil 
Witli  golden  threads  of  leisure. 

I  call  to  mind  the  summer  day, 

The  early  harvest  mowing, 
The  sky  with  sun  and  clouds  at  play, 

And  flowers  with  breezes  blowing. 

I  hear  the  blackbird  in  the  corn, 

The  locust  in  the  haying  ; 
And,  like  the  fabled  hunter's  horn, 

Old  tunes  my  heart  is  playing. 


BURNS 


197 


How  oft  that  day,  with  fond  delay, 

I  sought  the  maple's  shadow, 
And  sang  with  Burns  the  hours  away, 

Forgetful  of  the  meadow  ! 

Bees  hummed,  birds  twittered,  overhead 

I  heard  the  squirrels  leaping, 
The  good  dog  listened  while  I  read, 

And  wagged  his  tail  in  keeping. 

I  watched  him  while  in  sportive  mood 
I  read  "  The  Twa  Dogs'  "  story, 

And  half  believed  he  understood 
The  poet's  allegory. 

Sweet  day,  sweet  songs  !     The  golden  hours 
Grew  brighter  for  that  singing, 

From  brook  and  bird  and  meadow  flowers 
A  dearer  welcome  bringing. 

New  light  on  home-seen  Nature  beamed, 

New  glory  over  Woman  ; 
And  daily  life  and  duty  seemed 

No  longer  poor  and  common. 

1  woke  to  find  the  simple  truth 

Of  fact  and  feeling  better 
Than  all  the  dreams  that  held  my  youth 

A  still  repining  debtor  : 

That  Nature  gives  her  handmaid,  Art, 
The  themes  of  sweet  discoursing  ; 

The  tender  idyls  of  the  hea.rt 
In  every  tongue  rehearsing. 

Why  dream  of  lands  of  gold  and  pearl, 

Of  loving  knight  and  lady, 
When  farmer  boy  and  barefoot  girl 

Were  wandering  there  already  ? 

I  saw  through  all  familiar  things 

The  romance  underlying  ; 
The  joys  and  griefs  that  plume  the  wings 

Of  Fancy  skyward  flying. 

I  saw  the  same  blithe  day  return, 

The  same  sweet  fall  of  even, 
That  rose  on  wooded  Craigie-burn, 

And  sank  on  crystal  Devon. 

I  matched  with  Scotland's  heathery  hills 
The  sweetbrier  and  the  clover  ; " 

With  Ayr  and  Doon,  my  native  rills, 
Their  wood  hymns  chanting  over. 


O'er  rank  and  pomp,  as  he  had  seen, 

I  saw  the  Man  uprising  ; 
No  longer  common  or  unclean, 

The  child  of  God's  baptizing  ! 

With  clearer  eyes  I  saw  the  worth 

Of  life  among  the  lowly  ; 
The  Bible  at  his  Cotter's  hearth 

Had  made  my  own  more  holy. 

And  if  at  times  an  evil  strain, 

To  lawless  love  appealing, 
Broke  in  upon  the  sweet  refrain 

Of  pure  and  healthful  feeling, 

It  died  upon  the  eye  and  ear, 

No  inward  answer  gaining  ; 
No  heart  had  I  to  see  or  hear 

The  discord  and  the  staining. 

Let  those  who  never  erred  forget 
His  worth,  in  vain  bewailings  ; 

Sweet  Soul  of  Song  !     I  own  my  debt 
Uncancelled  by  his  failings  ! 

Lament  who  will  the  ribald  line 
Which  tells  his  lapse  from  duty, 

How  kissed  the  maddening  lips  of  wine 
Or  w°nton  ones  of  beauty  ; 

But  think,  while  falls  that  shade  between 

The  erring  one  and  Heaven, 
That  he  who  loved  like  Magdalen, 

Like  her  may  be  forgiven. 

Not  his  the  song  whose  thunderous  chime 

Eternal  echoes  render  ; 
The  mournful  Tuscan's  haunted  rhyme. 

And  Milton's  starry  splendor  ! 

But  who  his  human  heart  has  laid 

To  Nature's  bosom  nearer  ? 
Who  sweetened  toil  like  him,  or  paid 

To  love  a  tribute  dearer  ? 

Through  all  his  tuneful  art,  how  strong 

The  human  feeling  gushes  \ 
The  very  moonlight  of  his  song 

Is  warm  with  smiles  and  blushes  ! 

Give  lettered  pomp  to  teeth  of  Time, 
So  "  Bonnie  Doon  "  but  tarry  ; 

Blot  out  the  Epic's  stately  rhyme, 
But  spare  his  Highland  Mary  ! 


i98 


PERSONAL  POEMS 


TO  GEORGE  B.  CHEEVER 

So  spake  Esaias  :  so,  in  words  of  flame, 
Tekoa's     prophet- herdsman     smote    with 

blame 
The  traffickers  in  men,  and  put  to  shame, 

All  earth  and  heaven  before, 
The  sacerdotal  robbers  of  the  poor. 

All  the  dread  Scripture  lives  forthee  again, 
To  smite  like  lightning  on  the  hands  profane 
Lifted  to  bless  the  slave-whip  and  the  chain. 

Once  more  the  old  Hebrew  tongue 
Bends  with  the  shafts  of  God  a  bow  new- 
strung  ! 

Take  up    the  mantle  which  the    prophets 

wore  ; 
Warn  with  their  warnings,  show  the  Christ 

once  more 
Bound,    scourged,    and    crucified    in    His 

blameless  poor  ; 
And  shake  above  our  land 
The  unquenched  bolts  Lhat  blazed  in  Hosea's 

hand  ! 

Not  vainly  shalt  thou  cast  upon  our  years 
The  solemn  burdens  of  the  Orient  seers, 
And  smite  with  truth  a  guilty  nation's  ears. 

Mightier  was  Luther's  word 
Than  Seckingen's  mailed  arm  or  Button's 
sword  ! 


TO   JAMES    T.    FIELDS 

CN  A  BLANK  LEAF  OF  "  POEMS  PRINTED, 
NOT  PUBLISHED" 

WELL  thought  !  who  would  not  rather  hear 
The  songs  to  Love  and  Friendship  sung 
Than  those  which  move   the    stranger's 
tongue, 

And  feed  his  unselected  ear  ? 

Our  social  joys  are  more  than  fame  ; 

Life  withers  in  the  public  look. 

Why  mount  the  pillory  of  a  book, 
Or  barter  comfort  for  a  name  ? 

Who  in  a  house  of  glass  would  dwell, 
With  curious  eyes  at  every  pane  ? 
To  ring  him  in  and  out  again, 

Who  wants  the  Dublic  crier's  bell  ? 


To  see  the  angel  in  one's  way, 

Who  wants  to  play  the  ass's  part, — 
Bear  on  his  back  the  wizard  Art, 

And  in  his  service  speak  or  bray  ? 

And  who  his  manly  locks  would  shave, 
And  quench  the  eyes  of  common  sense, 
To  share  the  noisy  recompense 

That  mocked  the  shorn  and  blinded  slave? 

The  heart  has  needs  beyond  the  head, 
And,  starving  in  the  plenitude 
Of    strange    gifts,    craves    its   common 
food, — 

Our  human  nature's  daily  bread. 

We  are  but  men  :  no  gods  are  we, 
To  sit  in  mid-heaven,  cold  and  bleak, 
Each  separate,  on  his  painful  peak, 

Thin-cloaked  in  self-complacency  ! 

Better  his  lot  whose  axe  is  swung 

In  Wartburg's  woods,  or  that  poor  girl's 
Who  by  the  Urn  her  spindle  whirls 

And  sings  the  songs  that  Luther  sung, 

Than  his  who,  old,  and  cold,  and  vain, 
At  Weimar  sat,  a  demigod, 
And  bowed  with  Jove's  imperial  nod 

His  votaries  in  and  out  again  ! 

Ply,  Vanity,  thy  winged  feet ! 

Ambition,  hew  thy  rocky  stair  ! 

Who  envies  him  who  feeds  on  air 
The  icy  splendor  of  his  seat  ? 

I  see  your  Alps,  above  me,  cut 

The  dark,  cold  sky  ;  and  dim  and  lone 
I  see  ye  sitting,  —  stone  on  stone,  — 

With  human  senses  dulled  and  shut. 

I  could  not  reach  you,  if  I  would, 
Nor  sit  among  your  cloudy  shapes ; 
And  (spare  the  fable  of  the  grapes 

And  fox)  I  would  not  if  I  could. 

Keep  to  your  lofty  pedestals  ! 
The  safer  plain  below  I  choose  : 
Who  never  wins  can  rarely  lose, 

Who  never  climbs  as  rarely  falls. 

Let  such  as  love  the  eagle's  scream 
Divide  with  him  his  home  of  ice  : 
For  me  shall  gentler  notes  suffice, — • 

The  valley-song  of  bird  and  stream  : 


IN  REMEMBRANCE  OF  JOSEPH  STURGE 


199 


The  pastoral  bleat,  the  drone  of  bees, 
The  flail-beat  chiiuing  far  away, 
The  cattle-low,  at  shut  of  day, 

The  voice  of  God  in  leaf  and  breeze  ! 

Then  lend  thy  hand,  my  wiser  friend, 
And  help  me  to  the  vales  below, 
(In  truth,  I  have  not  far  to  go,) 

Where  sweet  with  flowers  the  fields  extend. 


THE   MEMORY   OF   BURNS 

Read  at  the  Boston  celebration  of  the  hun 
dredth  anniversary  of  the  birth  of  Robert 
Burns,  25th  1st  mo.,  1859.  In  my  absence 
these  lines  were  read  by  Ralph  Waldo  Emerson. 

How  sweetly  come  the  holy  psalms 

From  saints  and  martyrs  down, 
The  waving  of  triumphal  palms 

Above  the  thorny  crown  ! 
The  choral  praise,  the  chanted  prayers 

From  harps  by  angels  strung, 
The  hunted  Cameron's  mountain  airs, 

The  hymns  that  Luther  sung  ! 

5Tet,  jarring  not  the  heavenly  notes, 

The  sounds  of  earth  are  heard, 
As  through  the  open  minster  floats 

The  song  of  breeze  and  bird  ! 
Not  less  the  wonder  of  the  sky 

That  daisies  bloom  below  ; 
The  brook  sings  on,  though  loud  and  high 

The  cloudy  organs  blow  ! 

And,  if  the  tender  ear  be  jarred 

That,  haply,  hears  by  turns 
The  saintly  harp  of  Olney's  bard, 

The  pastoral  pipe  of  Burns, 
No  discord  mars  His  perfect  plan 

Who  gave  them  both  a  tongue  ; 
For  he  who  sings  the  love  of  man 

The  love  of  God  hath  sung  ! 

To-day  be  every  fault  forgiven 

Of  him  in  whom  we  joy  ! 
We  take,  with  thanks,  the  gold  of  Heaven 

And  leave  the  earth's  alloy. 
Be  ours  his  music  as  of  spring, 

His  sweetness  as  of  flowers, 
The  songs  the  bard  himself  might  sing 

In  holier  ears  than  ours. 

Sweet  airs  of  love  and  home,  the  hum 

Of  household  melodies, 
Come  singing,  as  the  robins  come 


To  sing  in  door-yard  trees. 
And,  heart  to  heart,  two  nations  lean, 

No  rival  wreaths  to  twine, 
But  blending  in  eternal  green 

The  holly  and  the  pine  ! 


IN    REMEMBRANCE    OF   JOSEPH 
STURGE 

IN  the  fair  land  o'erwatched  by  Ischia's 

mountains, 

Across  the  charmed  bay 
Whose  blue  waves  keep  with  Capri's  silver 

fountains 
Perpetual  holiday, 

A  king  lies  dead,  his  wafer  duly  eaten, 
His  gold-bought  masses  given  ; 

And  Rome's  great  altar  smokes  with  gums 

to  sweeten 
Her  foulest  gift  to  Heaven. 

And  while    all    Naples    thrills   with    mute 

thanksgiving, 

The  court  of  England's  queen 
For  the  dead   monster  so  abhorred  whik 

living 
In  mourning  garb  is  seen. 

With  a  true  sorrow  God  rebukes  that  feign 
ing  ; 

By  lone  Fdgbaston's  side 
Stands  a  great  city  in  the  sky's  sad  raining, 

Bareheaded  and  wet-eyed  ! 

Silent  for  once  the  restless  hive  of  labor, 
Save  the  low  funeral  tread, 

Or  voice   of  craftsman  whispering  to  his 

neighbor 
The  good  deeds  of  the  dead. 

For  him  no  minster's  chant  of  the  immor 
tals 

Rose  from  the  lips  of  sin  ; 
No  mitred  priest  swung  back  the  heavenly 

portals 
To  let  the  white  soul  in. 

But  Age  and  Sickness  framed  their  tearful 

faces 

In  the  low  hovel's  door, 
And  prayers  went  up  from  all  the  dark  by 

places 
And  Ghettos  of  the  poor. 


200 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


The  pallid  toiler  and  the  negro  chattel, 
The  vagrant  of  the  street, 

The  human  dice   wherewith   in  games  of 

battle 
The  lords  of  earth  compete, 

Touched  with  a  grief  that  needs  no  outward 

draping, 

All  swelled  the  long  lament, 
Of    grateful    hearts,    instead    of    marble, 

shaping 
His  viewless  monument ! 

For  never  yet,  with  ritual  pomp  and  splen 
dor, 

In  the  long  heretofore, 
A.  heart  more  loyal,  warm,  and  true,  and 

tender, 
Has  England's  turf  closed  o'er. 

And  if  there  fell  from  out  her  grand  old 

steeples 

No  crash  of  brazen  wail, 
The  murmurous  woe  of  kindreds,  tongues, 

and  peoples 
Swept  in  on  every  gale. 

It   came    from    Holstein's    birchen-belted 
meadows, 

And  from  the  tropic  calms 
Of  Indian  islands  in  the  sun-smit  shadows 

Of  Occidental  palms  ; 

From  the  locked  roadsteads  of  the  Bothnian 

peasants, 

And  harbors  of  the  Finn, 
Where  war's  worn  victims  saw  his  gentle 

presence 
Come  sailing,  Christ-like,  in, 

To  seek  the  lost,  to  build  the  old  waste 

places, 

To  link  the  hostile  shores 
Of  severing  seas,  and  sow  with  England's 

daisies 
The  moss  of  Finland's  moors. 

Thanks  for  the  good  man's  beautiful  ex 
ample, 

Who  in  the  vilest  saw 
Some  sacred  crypt  or  altar  of  a  temple 

Still  vocal  with  God's  law  ; 

And  heard  with  tender  ear  the  spirit  sighing 
As  from  its  prison  cell, 


Praying  for  pity,  like   the  mournful   cry 
ing 
Of  Jonah  out  of  hell. 

Not   his  the  golden  pen's  or  lip's  persua 
sion, 

But  a  fine  sense  of  right, 
And  Truth's  directness,  meeting  each  occa 
sion 
Straight  as  a  line  of  light. 

His  faith  and  works,  like  streams  that  in 
termingle, 

In  the  same  channel  ran  : 
The  crystal  clearness  of  an  eye  kept  sin 
gle 
Shamed  all  the  frauds  of  man. 

The  very  gentlest  of  all  human  natures 
He  joined  to  courage  strong, 

And  love  outreaching  unto  all  God's  crea 
tures 
With  sturdy  hate  of  wrong. 

Tender   as  woman,  manliness   and   meek 
ness 

In  him  were  so  allied 
That  they  who  judged  him  by  his  strength 

or  weakness 
Saw  but  a  single  side. 

Men   failed,   betrayed   him,    but    his   zeal 

seemed  nourished 
By  failure  and  by  fall  ; 
Still  a  large  faith  in  human-kind  he  cher 
ished, 
And  in  God's  love  for  all. 

And  now  he  rests  :  his  greatness  and  his 

sweetness 

No  more  shall  seem  at  strife, 
And  death  has  moulded  into  calm  complete 
ness 
The  statue  of  his  life. 

Where  the  dews  glisten  and  the  songbirds 

warble, 

His  dust  to  dust  is  laid, 
In    Nature's    keeping,    with   no   pomp    of 

marble 
To  shame  his  modest  shade. 

The  forges  glow,  the  hammers  all  are  ring. 

ing  ; 
Beneath  its  smoky  veil, 


NAPLES 


201 


Hard  by,  the  city  of  his  love  is  swinging 
Its  clamorous  iron  flail. 

But  round  his  grave  are  quietude  and  beauty, 
And  the  sweet  heaven  above,  — 

The  fitting  symbols  of  a  life  of  duty 
Transfigured  into  love  ! 


BROWN    OF   OSSAWATOMIE 

JOHN  BROWN  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his 

dying  day  : 
"  I  will  not  have  to  ,chrive  my  soul  a  priest 

in  Slavery's  pay. 
But  let  some  poor  slave-mother  whom  I 

have  striven  to  free, 
With  her  children,  from  the  gallows-stair 

put  up  a  prayer  for  me  !  " 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  they  led  him 

out  to  die  ; 
And  lo  !  a  poor  slave-mother  with  her  little 

child  pressed  nigh. 
Then  the  bold,  blue  eye  grew  tender,  and 

the  old  harsh  face  grew  mild, 
As  he  stooped  between  the  jeering  ranks  and 

kissed  the  negro's  child  ! 

The  shadows  of  his  stormy  life  that  moment 
fell  apart  ; 

And  they  who  blamed  the  bloody  hand  for 
gave  the  loving  heart. 

That  kiss  from  all  its  guilty  means  re 
deemed  the  good  intent, 

And  round  the  grisly  fighter's  hair  the  mar 
tyr's  aureole  bent  ! 

Perish  with  him  the  folly  that  seeks  through 

evil  good  ! 
Long  live  the  generous  purpose  unstained 

with  human  blood  ! 
Not  the  raid  of  midnight  terror,  but  the 

thought  which  underlies  ; 
Not  the  borderer's  pride  of  daring,  but  the 

Christian's  sacrifice. 

Nevermore  may  yon  Blue  Ridges  the  North 
ern  rifle  hear, 

Nor  see  the  light  of  blazing  homes  flash  on 
the  negro's  spear. 

But  let  the  free-winged  angel  Truth  their 
guarded  passes  scale, 

To  teach  that  right  is  more  than  might,  and 
justice  more  than  mail  ! 


So  vainly  shall  Virginia  set  her  battle  in 

array  ; 
In  vain  her  trampling  squadrons  knead  the 

winter  snow  with  clay. 
She  may  strike  the  pouncing  eagle,  but  she 

dares  not  harm  the  dove  ; 
And  every  gate  she  bars  to  Hate  shall  open 

wide  to  Love  ! 


NAPLES 

INSCRIBED    TO    ROBERT    C.    WATERSTON, 
OF   BOSTON 

Helen  Waterston  died  at  Naples  in  her 
eighteenth  year,  arid  lies  buried  in  the  Prot 
estant  cemetery  there.  The  stone  over  her 
grave  bears  the  lines, 

Fold  her,  O  Father,  in  Thine  arms, 

And  let  her  henceforth  be 
A  messenger  of  love  between 

Our  human  hearts  and  Thee. 

I  GIVE  thee  joy  !  —  I  know  to  thee 

The  dearest  spot  011  earth  must  be 

Where  sleeps  thy  loved  one  by  the  summer 


Where,  near  her  sweetest  poet's  tomb, 
The  land  of  Virgil  gave  thee  room 
To  lay  thy  flower  with  her  perpetual  bloom. 

I  know  that  when  the  sky  shut  down 
Behind  thee  on  the  gleaming  town, 
On  Baise's  baths  and  Posilippo's  crown  ; 

And,  through  thy  tears,  the  mocking 

day 

Burned  Ischia's  mountain  lines  away, 
And  Capri  melted  in  its  sunny  bay  ; 

Through  thy  great  farewell  sorrow  shot 
The  sharp  pang  of  a  bitter  thought 
That  slaves  must  tread  around  that  holy 
spot. 

Thou  knewest  not  the  land  was  blest 
In  giving  thy  beloved  rest, 
Holding  the  fond  hope  closer  to  her  breast 

That  every  sweet  and  saintly  grave 

Was  freedom's  prophecy,  and  gave 

The   pledge   of   Heaven   to    sanctify   and 


102 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


That  pledge  is  answered.     To  thy  ear 
The  unchained  city  sends  its  cheer, 
And,  tuned  to  joy,  the  muffled  bells  of  fear 

Ring  Victor  in.     The  land  sits  free 
And  happy  by  the  summer  sea, 
And  Bourbon  Naples  now  is  Italy  ! 

She  smiles  above  her  broken  chain 
The  languid  smile  that  follows  pain, 
Stretching  her  cramped  limbs  to  the  sun 
again. 

Oh,  joy  for  all,  who  hear  her  call 
From  gray  Camaldoli's  convent-wall 
And  Elmo's  towers  to  freedom's  carnival  ! 

A  new  life  breathes  among  her  vines 
And  olives,  like  the  breath  of  pines 
Blown  downward  from  the    breezy  Apen- 


Lean,  O  my  friend,  to  meet  that  breath. 
Rejoice  as  one  who  witnesseth 
Beauty  from  ashes  rise,  and  life  from  death! 

Thy  sorro'.v  shall  no  more  be  pain, 
Its  tears  shall  fall  in  sunlit  rain, 
Writing  the  grave  with  flowers  :  "  Arisen 
again  !  " 


A    MEMORIAL 

Moses  Austin  Cartland,  a  dear  friend  and  re 
lation,  who  led  a  faithful  life  as  a  teacher,  arid 
died  in  the  summer  of  1863. 

OH,  thicker,  deeper,  darker  growing, 

The  solemn  vista  to  the  tomb 
Must  know  henceforth  another  shadow, 

And  give  another  cypress  room. 

In  love  surpassing  that  of  brothers, 

We  walked,  O  friend,  from  childhood's 
day ; 

A.nd,  looking  back  o'er  fifty  summers, 
Our  footprints  track  a  common  way. 

One  in  our  faith,  and  one  our  longing 
To  make  the  world  within  our  reach 

Somewhat  the  better  for  our  living, 
And  gladder  for  our  human  speech. 

Thou  heard'st  with  me  the  far-off  voices, 
The  old  beguiling  song  of  fame, 


But  life  to  thee  was  warm  and  present, 
And  love  was  better  than  a  name. 

To  homely  joys  and  loves  and  friendships 
Thy  genial  nature  fondly  clung  ; 

And  so  the  shadow  on  the  dial 

Ran  back  and  left  thee  always  young. 

And  who  could  blame  the  generous  weak 
ness 

Which,  only  to  thyself  unjust, 
So  overprized  the  worth  of  others, 

And  dwarfed  thy  own  with  self-distrust  ? 

All  hearts  grew  warmei  in  the  presence 
Of  one  who,  seeking  not  his  own, 

Gave  freely  for  the  love  of  giving, 
Nor  reaped  for  self  the  harvest  sown. 

Thy  greeting  smile  was  pledge  and  prelude 
Of  generous  deeds  and  kindly  words  ; 

In  thy  large  heart  were  fair  guest-chambers, 
Open  to  sunrise  and  the  birds  ! 

The  task  was  thine  to  mould  and  fashion 
Life's  plastic  newness  into  grace  : 

To  make  the  boyish  heart  heroic, 

And  light   with    thought    the    maiden's 
face. 

O'er  all  the  land,  in  town  and  prairie, 
With  bended  heads  of  mourning,  stand 

The  living  forms  that  owe  their  beauty 
And  fitness  to  thy  shaping  hand. 

Thy  call  has  come  in  ripened  manhood, 
The  noonday  calm  of  heart  and  mind, 

While  I,  who  dreamed  of  thy  remaining 
To  mourn  me,  linger  still  behind  : 

Live  on,  to  own,  with  self-upbraiding, 
A  debt  of  love  still  due  from  me,  — 

The  vain  remembrance  of  occasions, 
Forever  lost,  of  serving  thee. 


It  was  not  mine  among  thy  kindred 
To  join  the  silent  funeral  prayers, 

But  all  that  long  sad  day  of  summer 
My   tears    of    mourning    dropped 
theirs. 


wit* 


All  day  the  sea-waves  sobbed  with  sorrow, 
The  birds  forgot  their  merry  trills  : 

All  day  I  heard  the  pines  lamenting 
With  thine  upon  thy  homestead  hills. 


LINES   ON   A   FLY-LEAF 


203 


Green  be  those  hillside  pines  forever, 
And  green  the  meadowy  lowlands  be, 

And  green  the  old  memorial  beeches, 
Name-carven  in  the  woods  of  Lee  ! 

Still  let  them  greet  thy  life  companions 
Who  thither  turn  their  pilgrim  feet, 

In  every  mossy  line  recalling 
A  tender  memory  sadly  sweet. 

O  friend  !  if  thought  and  sense  avail  not 
To  know  thee  henceforth  as  thou  art, 

That  all  is  well  with  thee  forever 
I  trust  the  instincts  of  my  heart. 

Thine  be  the  quiet  habitations, 

Thine  the  green  pastures,  blossom-sown, 
And  smiles  of  saintly  recognition, 

As  sweet  and  tender  as  thy  own. 

Thou  corn'st  not  from  the  hush  and  shadow 
To  meet  us,  but  to  thee  we  come, 

With  thee  we  never  can  be  strangers, 
And  where  thou  art  must  still  be  home. 


BRYANT  ON  HIS  BIRTHDAY 

Mr.  Bryant's  seventieth  birthday,  November 
3,  1864,  was  celebrated  by  a  festival  to  which 
these  verses  were  sent. 

WE  praise  not  now  the  poet's  art, 
The  rounded  beauty  of  his  song  ; 

Who  weighs  him  from  his  life  apart 
Must  do  his  nobler  nature  wrong. 

Not  for  the  eye,  familiar  grown 

With  charms  to  common  sight  denied,  — 
The  marvellous  gift  he  shares  alone 

With  him  who  walked  on  Rydal-side  ; 

Not  for  rapt  hymn  nor  woodland  lay, 

Too    grave    for    smiles,    too    sweet    for 
tears  ; 

We  speak  his  praise  who  wears  to-day 
The  glory  of  his  seventy  years. 

When  Peace  brings  Freedom  in  her  train, 
Let  happy  lips  his  songs  rehearse  ; 

His  life  is  now  his  noblest  strain, 
His  manhood  better  than  his  verse  ! 

Thank  God  !  his  hand  on  Nature's  keys 
Its  cunning  keeps  at  life's  full  span  ; 


But,  dimmed   and  dwarfed,  in  times  like 

these, 
The  poet  seems  beside  the  man  ! 

So  be  it  !  let  the  garlands  die, 

The  singer's  wreath,  the  painter's  meed, 
Let  our  names  perish,  if  thereby 

Our  country  may  be  saved  and  freed  ! 


THOMAS  STARR  KING 

Published  originally  as  a  prelude  to  the  post 
humous  volume  of  selections  edited  by  Richard 
Frothingham. 

THE  great  work  laid  upon  his  twoscore  years 
Is  done,  and  well  done.  If  we  drop  our 

tears, 

Who  loved  him  as  few  men  were  ever  loved, 
We  mourn  no  blighted  hope  nor  broken  plan 
With  him  whose  life  stands  rounded  and 

approved 

In  the  full  growth  and  stature  of  a  man. 
Mingle,  O  bells,  along  the  Western  slope, 
With  your  deep  toll  a  sound  of  faith  and 

hope  ! 
Wave   cheerily   still,    O   banner,  half-way 

down, 
From   thousand-masted   bay   and  steepled 

town  ! 

Let  the  strong  organ  with  its  loftiest  swell 
Lift  the  proud  sorrow  of  the  land,  and  tell 
That  the  brave  sower  saw  his  ripened  grain. 
O  East  and  West  !  O  morn  and  sunset 

twain 

No  more  forever  !  —  has  he  lived  in  vain 
Who,  priest  of  Freedom,  made  ye  one,  and 

told 
Your  bridal  service  from  his  lips  of  gold  ? 


LINES  ON  A  FLY-LEAF 

[Suggested  by  the  book  A  New  Atmosphere, 
by  Gail  Hamilton.  The  other  friends  referred 
to  in  the  lines  are  Lydia  Maria  Child,  Grace 
Greenwood,  Anna  E.  Dickinson  and  Mrs. 

Stowe.] 

I  NEED  not  ask  thee,  for  my  sake, 
To  read  a  book  which  well  may  make 
Its  way  by  native  force  of  wit 
Without  my  manual  sign  to  it. 
Its  piquant  writer  needs  from  me 
No  gravely  masculine  guaranty, 


204 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


And  well  might  laugh  her  merriest  laugh 

At  broken  spears  in  her  behalf  ; 

Yet,  spite  of  all  the  critics  tell, 

I  frankly  own  I  like  her  well. 

It  may  be  that  she  wields  a  pen 

Too  sharply  nibbed  for  thin-skinned  men, 

That  her  keen  arrows  search  and  try 

The  armor  joints  of  dignity, 

And,  though  alone  for  error  meant, 

Sing  through  the  air  irreverent. 

I  blame  her  not,  the  young  athlete 

Who  plants  her  woman's  tiny  feet, 

And  dares  the  chances  of  debate 

Where  bearded  men  might  hesitate, 

Who,  deeply  earnest,  seeing  well 

The  ludicrous  and  laughable, 

Mingling  in  eloquent  excess 

Her  anger  and  her  tenderness, 

And,  chiding  with  a  half-caress, 

Strives,  less  for  her  own  sex  than  ours, 

With  principalities  and  powers, 

And  points  us  up  ward  to  the  clear 

Sunned  heights  of  her  new  atmosphere. 

Heaven  mend  her  faults  !  —  I  will  not  pause 

To  weigh  and  doubt  and  peck  at  flaws, 

Ox  waste  my  pity  when  some  fool 

Provokes  her  measureless  ridicule. 

Strong-minded  is  she  ?     Better  so 

Than  dulness  set  for  sale  or  show, 

A  household  folly,  capped  and  belled 

In  fashion's  dance  of  puppets  held, 

Or  poor  pretence  of  womanhood, 

Whose  formal,  flavorless  platitude 

Is  warranted  from  all  offence 

Of  robust  meaning's  violence. 

Give  me  the  wine  of  thought  whose  bead 

Sparkles  along  the  page  I  read,  — 

Electric  words  in  which  I  find 

The  tonic  of  the  northwest  wind  ; 

The  wisdom  which  itself  allies 

To  sweet  and  pure  humanities, 

Where  scorn  of  meanness,  hate  of  wrong, 

Are  underlaid  by  love  as  strong  ; 

The  genial  play  of  mirth  that  lights 

Grave  themes  of  thought,  as  when,  on  nights 

Of  summer-time,  the  harmless  blaze 

Of  thunderless  heat-lightning  plays, 

And  tree  and  hill-top  resting  dim 

And  doubtful  on  the  sky's  vague  rim, 

Touched  by  that  soft  and  lambent  gleam, 

Start  sharply  outlined  from  their  dream. 

Talk  not  to  me  of  woman's  sphere, 
Nor  point  with  Scripture  texts  a  sneer, 


Nor  wrong  the  manliest  saint  of  all 
By  doubt,  if  he  were  here,  that  Paul 
Would  own  the  heroines  who  have  lent 
Grace  to  truth's  stern  arbitrament, 
Foregone  the  praise  to  woman  sweet. 
And  cast  their  crowns  at  Duty's  feet  ; 
Like  her,  who  by  her  strong  Appeal 
Made  Fashion  weep  and  Mammon  feel, 
Who,  earliest  summoned  to  withstand 
The  color-madness  of  the  land, 
Counted  her  life-long  losses  gain, 
And  made  her  own  her  sisters'  pain  ; 
Or  her  who,  in  her  greenwood  shade, 
Heard  the  sharp  call  that  Freedom  made, 
And,  answering,  struck  from  Sappho's  lyre 
Of  love  the  TyrtaBan  carmen's  lire  : 
Or  that  young  girl,  —  Domre'my's  maid 
Revived  a  nobler  cause  to  aid,  — 
Shaking  from  warning  finger-tips 
The  doom  of  her  apocalypse  ; 
Or  her,  who  world-wide  entrance  gave 
To  the  log-cabin  of  the  slave, 
Made  all  his  want  and  sorrow  known, 
And  all  earth's  languages  his  own. 


GEORGE   L.   STEARNS 

No  man  rendered  greater  service  to  the 
cause  of  Freedom  than  Major  Stearns  in  the 
great  struggle  between  invading  slave-holders 
and  the  free  settlers  of  Kansas. 

HE  has  done  the  work  of  a  true  man,  — 
Crown  him,  honor  him,  love  him. 

Weep  over  him,  tears  of  woman, 
Stoop  manliest  brows  above  him  ! 

O  dusky  mothers  and  daughters, 
Vigils  of  mourning  keep  for  him  ! 

Up   in   the   mountains,  and  down  by  the 

waters, 
Lift  up  your  voices  and  weep  for  him  ! 

For  the  warmest  of  hearts  is  frozen, 

The  freest  of  hands  is  still ; 
And  the  gap  in  our  picked  and  chosen 

The  long  years  may  not  fill. 

No  duty  could  overtask  him, 

No  need  his  will  outrun  ; 
Or  ever  our  lips  could  ask  him, 

His  hands  the  work  had  done. 

He  forgot  his  own  soul  for  others, 
Himself  to  his  neighbor  lending  ; 


TO   LYDIA  MARIA   CHILD 


He  found  the  Lord  in  his  suffering  brothers, 
And  not  in  the  clouds  descending. 

So  the  bed  was  sweet  to  die  on, 

Whence  he  saw  the  doors  wide  swung 

Against  whose  bolted  iron 

The  strength  of  his  life  was  flung. 

And  he  saw  ere  his  eye  was  darkened 
The  sheaves  of  the  harvest-bringing, 

And  knew  while  his  ear  yet  hearkened 
The  voice  of  the  reapers  singing. 

Ah,  well !     The  world  is  discreet  ; 

There  are  plenty  to  pause  and  wait  ; 
But  here  was  a  man  who  set  his  feet 

Sometimes  in  advance  of  fate  ; 

Plucked  off  the  old  bark  when  the  inner 

Was  slow  to  renew  it, 
And  put  to  the  Lord's  work  the  sinner 

When  saints  failed  to  do  it. 

Never  rode  to  the  wrong's  redressing 

A  worthier  paladin. 
Shall  he  not  hear  the  blessing, 

"  Good  and  faithful,  enter  in  !  " 


GARIBALDI 

IN  trance  and  dream  of  old,  God's  prophet 
saw 

The    casting    down    of    thrones.     Thou, 
watching  lone 

The  hot  Sardinian  coast-line,  hazy-hilled, 

Where,  fringing  round  Caprera's  rocky 

zone 

With   foam,  the   slow  waves   gather   and 
withdraw, 

Behold'st  the  vision  of  the  seer  fulfilled, 

And  hear'st  the  sea-winds  burdened  with 
a  sound 

Of  falling  chains,  as,    one   by  one,  un 
bound, 

Hie  nations  lift  their  right  hands  up  and 
swear 

Their  oath  of  freedom.     From  the  chalk- 
white  wall 

Of  England,  from   the  black   Carpathian 
range, 

Along    the    Danube    and    the     Theiss, 
through  all 

The  passes  of  the  Spanish  Pyrenees, 


And  from  the   Seine's  thronged   banks,  a 

murmur  strange 
And  glad  floats  to  thee  o'er  thy  summer 

seas 
On  the  salt  wind  that  stirs  thy  whitening 

hair,  — 

The  song  of  freedom's  bloodless  victories  ! 
Rejoice,  O  Garibaldi  !  Though  thy  sword 
Failed  at  Rome's  gates,  and  blood  seemed 

vainly  poured 

Where,  in  Christ's  name,  the  crowned  infidel 
Of  France  wrought  murder  with  the  arms 

of  hell 
On  that  sad  mountain  slope  whose  ghostly 

dead, 

Unmindful  of  the  gray  exorcist's  ban, 
Walk,  unappeased,  the  chambered  Vatican, 
And  draw  the  curtains  of  Napoleon's  bed  ! 
God's  providence  is  not  blind,  but,  full  of 

eyes, 

It  searches  all  the  refuges  of  lies  ; 
And  in  His  time  and  way,  the  accursed 

things 

Before  whose  evil  feet  thy  battle-gage 
Has  clashed  defiance  from  hot  youth  to 

age 
Shall  perish.     All  men  shall  be  priests  and 

kings, 
One  royal  brotherhood,  one  church  made 

free 
By  love,  which  is  the  law  of  liberty  ! 


TO   LYDIA.  MARIA   CHILD 


ON   READING   HER  POEM   IN   "  THE   STAN 
DARD  " 

Mrs.  Child  wrote  her  lines,  beginning. 
"Again  the  trees  are  clothed  in  vernal  green," 
May  24,  1859,  on  the  first  anniversary  of  Ellis 
Gray  Loring's  death,  but  did  not  publish  them 
for  some  years  afterward,  when  I  first  read 
them,  or  I  could  not  have  made  the  reference 
which  I  did  to  the  extinction  of  slavery. 

THE  sweet  spring  day  is  glad  with  music, 
But  through  it  sounds  a  sadder  strain  ; 

The  worthiest  of  our  narrowing  circle 
Sings  Loring's  dirges  o'er  again. 

O  woman  greatly  loved  !     I  join  thee 
In  tender  memories  of  our  friend  ; 

With  thee  across  the  awful  spaces 
The  greeting  of  a  soul  I  send  ! 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


What  cheer  hath  he  ?     How  is  it  with  him  ? 

Where  lingers  he  this  weary  while  ? 
Over  what  pleasant  fields  of  Heaven 

Dawns  the  sweet  sunrise  of  his  smile  ? 

Does  he  not  know  oar  feet  are  treading 
The  earth  hard  down  on  Slavery's  grave  ? 

That,  in  our  crowning  exultations, 

We  miss  the  charm  his  presence  gave  ? 

Why  on  this  spring  air  comes  no  whisper 
From  him  to  tell  us  all  is  well  ? 

Why  to  our  flower-time  comes  no  token 
Of  lily  and  of  asphodel  ? 

I  feel  the  unutterable  longing, 
Thy  hunger  of  the  heart  is  mine  ; 

I  reach  and  grope  for  hands  in  darkness, 
My  ear  grows  sharp  for  voice  or  sign. 

Still  on  the  lips  of  all  we  question 
The  finger  of  God's  silence  lies  ; 

Will  the  lost  hands  in  ours  be  folded  ? 
Will  the  shut  eyelids  ever  rise  ? 

O  friend  !  no  proof  beyond  this  yearning. 
This  outreach  of  our  hearts,  we  need  ; 

God  will  not  mock  the  hope  He  giveth, 
No  love  He  prompts  shall  vainly  plead. 

Then  let  us  stretch  our  hands  in  darkness, 
And  call  our  loved  ones  o'er  and  o'er  ; 

Some  day  their  arms  shall  close  about  us, 
And  the  old  voices  speak  once  more. 

No  dreary  splendors  wait  our  coming 
Where  rapt  ghost  sits  from  ghost  apart  ; 

Homeward  we  go  to  Heaven's  thanksgiving, 
The  harvest-gathering  of  the  heart. 


THE    SINGER 

This  poem  was  written  on  the  death  of  Alice 
Csary.  Her  sister  Phoebe,  heart-broken  by  her 
loss,  followed  soon  after.  Noble  and  richly 
gifted,  lovely  in  person  and  character,  they 
left  behind  them  only  friends  and  admirers. 

YEARS  since  (but  names  to  me  before), 
Two  sisters  sought  at  eve  my  door  ; 
Two  song-birds  wandering  from  their  nest, 
A  gray  old  farm-house  in  the  West. 

How  fresh  of  life  the  younger  one, 
Half  smiles,  half  tears,  like  rain  in  sun  ! 


Her  gravest  mood  could  scarce  displace 
The  dimples  of  her  nut-brown  face. 

Wit  sparkled  on  her  lips  not  less 
For  quick  and  tremulous  tenderness  ; 
And,  following  close  her  merriest  glance, 
Dreamed  through  her  eyes  the  heart's  TO- 


Timid  and  stil1    the  elder  had 
Even  then  a  smile  too  sweetly  sad  ; 
The  crown  of  pain  that  all  must  wear 
Too  early  pressed  her  midnight  hair. 

Yet  ere  the  summer  eve  grew  long, 
Her  modest  lips  were  sweet  with  song  ; 
A  memory  haunted  all  her  words 
Of  clover-fields  and  singing  birds. 

Her  dark,  dilating  eyes  expressed 

The  broad  horizons  of  the  west  ; 

Her  speech  dropped  prairie  flowers  ;    tha 

gold 
Of  harvest  wheat  about  her  rolled. 

Fore-doomed  to  song  she  seemed  to  me  : 

I  queried  not  with  destiny  : 

I  knew  the  trial  and  the  need, 

Yet,  all  the  more,  I  said,  God  speed  ! 

What  could  I  other  than  I  did  ? 
Could  I  a  singing-bird  forbid  ? 
Deny  the  wind-stirred  leaf  ?     Rebuke 
The  music  of  the  forest  brook  ? 

She  went  with  morning  from  my  door, 
But  left  me  richer  than  before  ; 
Thenceforth  I  knew  her  voice  of  cheer, 
The  welcome  of  her  partial  ear. 

Years   passed  :    through  all  the  land  hei 

name 

A  pleasant  household  word  became  : 
All  felt  behind  the  singer  stood 
A  sweet  and  gracious  womanhood. 

Her  life  was  earnest  work,  not  play  ; 
Her  tired  feet  climbed  a  weary  way  ; 
And  even  through  her  lightest  strain 
We  heard  an  undertone  of  pain. 

Unseen  of  her  her  fair  fame  grew, 
The  good  she  did  she  rarely  knew, 
Unguessed  of  her  in  life  the  love 
That  rained  its  tears  her  grave  abova 


HOW  MARY  GREW 


•07 


When  last  I  saw  her,  full  of  peace, 
She  waited  for  her  great  release  ; 
And  that  old  friend  so  sage  and  bland, 
Our  later  Franklin,  held  her  hand. 

For  all  that  patriot  bosoms  stirs 
Had  moved  that  woman's  heart  of  hers, 
And  men  who  toiled  in  storm  and  sun 
Found  her  their  meet  companion. 

Our  converse,  from  her  suffering  bed 
To  healthful  themes  of  life  she  led  : 
The  out-door  world  of  bud  and  bloom 
And  light  and  sweetness  filled  her  room. 

Yet  evermore  an  under-thought 
Of  loss  to  come  within  us  wrought, 
And  all  the  while  we  felt  the  strain 
Of  the  strong  will  that  conquered  pain. 

God  giveth  quietness  at  last  ! 
The  common  way  that  all  have  passed 
She  went,  with  mortal  yearnings  fond, 
To  fuller  life  and  love  beyond. 

Fold  the  rapt  soul  in  your  embrace, 
My  dear  ones  !     Give  the  singer  place  ! 
To  you,  to  her,  —  I  know  not  where,  — 
I  lift  the  silence  of  a  prayer. 

For  only  thus  our  own  we  find  ; 
The  gone  before,  the  left  behind, 
All  mortal  voices  die  between  ; 
The  unheard  reaches  the  unseen. 

Again  the  blackbirds  sing  ;  the  streams 
Wake,  laughing,  from  their  winter  dreams, 
And  tremble  in  the  April  showers 
The  tassels  of  the  maple  flowers. 

But  not  for  her  has  spring  renewed 
The  sweet  surprises  of  the  wood  ; 
And  bird  and  flower  are  lost  to  her 
Who  was  their  best  interpreter  ! 

What  to  shut  eyes  has  God  revealed  ? 
What     hear     the     ears     that    death    has 

sealed  ? 

What  undreamed  beauty  passing  show 
Kequites  the  loss  of  all  we  know  ? 

O  silent  land,  to  which  we  move, 
Enough  if  there  alone  be  love, 


And  mortal  need  can  ne'er  outgrow 
What  it  is  waiting  to  bestow  ! 

O  white  soul  !  from  that  far-off  shore 
Float  some  sweet  song  the  waters  o'er, 
Our  faith  confirm,  our  fears  dispel, 
With  the  old  voice  we  loved  so  well  I 


HOW   MARY   GREW 

These  lines  were  in  answer  to  an  invitation 
to  hear  a  lecture  of  Mary  Grew,  of  Philadelphia, 
before  the  Boston  Radical  Club.  The  reference 
in  the  last  stanza  is  to  an  essay  on  Sappho  by 
T.  W.  Higginson,  read  at  the  club  the  preceding 
month. 

WITH  wisdom  far  beyond  her  years, 
And  graver  than  her  wondering  peers, 
So  strong,  so  mild,  combining  still 
The  tender  heart  and  queenly  will, 
To  conscience  and  to  Jiuty  true, 
So,  up  from  childhood,  Mary  Grew ! 

Then  in  her  gracious  womanhood 
She  gave  her  days  to  doing  good. 
She  dared  the  scornful  laugh  of  men, 
The  hounding  mob,  the  slanderer's  pen. 
She  did  the  work  she  found  to  do,  — 
A  Christian  heroine,  Mary  Grew  ! 

The  freed  slave  thanks  her  ;  blessing  comet 
To  her  from  women's  weary  homes  ; 
The  wronged  and  erring  find  in  her 
Their  censor  mild  and  comforter. 
The  world  were  safe  if  but  a  few 
Could  grow  in  grace  as  Mary  Grew  ! 

So,  New  Year's  Eve,  I  sit  and  say, 
By  this  low  wood-fire,  ashen  gray  ; 
Just  wishing,  as  the  night  shuts  down, 
That  I  could  hear  in  Boston  town, 
In  pleasant  Chestnut  Avenue, 
Frun  her  own  lips,  how  Mary  Grew  ! 

And  hear  her  graceful  hostess  tell 

The  silver-voiced  oracle 

Who  lately  through  her  parlors  spoke, 

As  through  Dodona's  sacred  oak, 

A  wiser  truth  than  any  told 

By  Sappho's  lips  of  ruddy  gold, — 

The  way  to  make  the  world  anew 

Is  just  to  grow  —  as  Mary  Grew '• 


208 


PERSONAL  POEMS 


SUMNER 

"  I  am  not  one  who  has  disgraced  beauty  of 
sentiment  by  deformity  of  conduct,  or  the  max 
ims  of  a  freeman  by  the  actions  of  a  slave  ;  but, 
by  the  grace  of  God,  I  have  kept  ray  life  unsul 
lied."  —  MILTON'S  Defence  of  the  People  of 
England. 

0  MOTHER  STATE  !  the  winds  of  March 
Blew  chill  o'er  Auburn's  Field  of  God, 

Where,  slow,  beneath  a  leaden  arch 
Of  sky,  thy  mourning  children  trod. 

And  now,  with  all  thy  woods  in  leaf, 
Thy  fields  in  flower,  beside  thy  dead 

Thou  sittest,  in  thy  robes  of  grief, 
A  Rachel  yet  uncomforted  ! 

And  once  again  the  organ  swells, 

Once  more  the  flag  is  half-way  hung, 

And  yet  again  the  mournful  bells 
In  all  thy  steeple-towers  are  rung. 

And  I,  obedient  to  thy  will, 

Have  come  a  simple  wreath  to  lay, 

Superfluous,  on  a  grave  that  still 

Is  sweet  with  all  the  flowers  of  May. 

1  take,  with  awe,  the  task  assigned  ; 

It  may  be  that  my  friend  might  miss, 
In  his  new  sphere  of  heart  and  mind, 
Some  token  from  my  hand  in  this. 

By  many  a  tender  memory  moved, 
Along  the  past  my  thought  I  send  j 

The  record  of  the  cause  he  loved 
Is  the  best  record  of  its  friend. 

No  trumpet  sounded  in  his  ear, 

He  saw  not  Sinai's  cloud  and  flame, 

But  never  yet  to  Hebrew  seer 
A  clearer  voice  of  duty  came. 

God    saicl  :      "  Break   thou   these   yokes  ; 
undo 

These  heavy  burdens.     I  ordain 
A  work  to  last  thy  whole  life  through, 

A  ministry  of  strife  and  pain. 

"  Forego  thy  dreams  of  lettered  ease, 
Put  thou  the  scholar's  promise  by, 

The  rights  of  man  are  more  than  these." 
He  heard,  and  answered  :  "  Here  am  I !  " 


He  set  his  face  against  the  blast, 
His  feet  against  the  flinty  shard, 

Till  the  hard  service  grew,  at  last, 
Its  own  exceeding  great  reward. 

Lifted  like  Saul's  above  the  crowd, 
Upon  his  kingly  forehead  fell 

The  first  sharp  bolt  of  Slavery's  cloud, 
Launched  at  the  truth  he  urged  so  well 

Ah  !  never  yet,  at  rack  or  stake, 

Was  sorer  loss  made  Freedom's  gain, 

Than  his,  who  suffered  for  her  sake 
The  beak-torn  Titan's  lingering  pain  ! 

The  fixed  star  of  his  faith,  through  all 
Loss,  doubt,  and  peril,  shone  the  same  j 

As  through  a  night  of  storm,  some  tall, 
Strong  lighthouse  lifts  its  steady  flame. 

Beyond  the  dust  and  smoke  he  saw 

The  sheaves  of  Freedom's  large  increase 

The  holy  fanes  of  equal  law, 
The  New  Jerusalem  of  peace. 

The  weak  might  fear,  the  worldling  mocji 
The  faint  and  blind  of  heart  regret ; 

All  knew  at  last  th'  eternal  rock 
On  which  his  forward  feet  were  set. 

The  subtlest  scheme  of  compromise 
Was  folly  to  his  purpose  bold  ; 

The  strongest  mesa  of  party  lies 
Weak  to  the  simplest  truth  he  told. 

One  language  held  his  heart  and  lip, 
Straight  onward  to  his  goal  he  trod, 

And  proved  the  highest  statesmanship 
Obedience  to  the  voice  of  God. 

No  wail  was  in  his  voice,  —  none  heard, 
When    treason's    storm-cloud     blackest 
grew, 

The  weakness  of  a  doubtful  word  ; 
His  duty,  and  the  end,  he  knew. 

The  first  to  smite,  the  first  to  spare  ; 

When  once  the  hostile  ensigns  fell, 
He  stretched  out  hands  of  generous  care 

To  lift  the  foe  he  fought  so  well. 

For  there  was  nothing  base  or  small 
Or  craven  in  his  soul's  broad  plan  ; 

Forgiving  all  things  personal, 
He  hated  only  wrong  to  man. 


SUMNER 


209 


The  old  traditions  of  his  State, 

The  memories  of  her  great  and  good, 

Took  from  his  life  a  fresher  date, 
And  in  himself  embodied  stood. 

How  felt  the  greed  of  gold  and  place, 
The  venal  crew  that  schemed  and  planned, 

The  fine  scorn  of  that  haughty  face, 
The  spurning  of  that  bribeless  hand  ! 

If  than  Rome's  tribunes  statelier 

He  wore  his  senatorial  robe, 
His  lofty  port  was  all  for  her, 

The  one  dear  spot  on  all  the  globe. 

If  to  the  master's  plea  he  gave 

The  vast  contempt  his  manhood  felt, 

He  saw  a  brother  in  the  slave,  • — 
With  man  as  equal  man  he  dealt. 

Proud  was  he  ?  If  his  presence  kept 
Its  grandeur  wheresoe'er  he  trod, 

As  if  from  Plutarch's  gallery  stepped 
The  hero  and  the  demigod, 

None  failed,  at  least,  to  reach  his  ear, 
Nor  want  nor  woe  appealed  in  vain  ; 

The  homesick  soldier  knew  his  cheer, 
And  blessed  him  from  his  ward  of  pain. 

Safely  his  dearest  friends  may  own 
The  slight  defects  he  never  hid, 

The  surface-blemish  in  the  stone 
Of  the  tall,  stately  pyramid. 

Suffice  it  that  he  never  brought 
His  conscience  to  the  public  mart  ; 

But  lived  himself  the  truth  he  taught, 
White  -  souled,    clean-handed,    pure    of 
heart. 

What  if  he  felt  the  natural  pride 
Of  power  in  noble  use,  too  true 

With  thin  humilities  to  hide 

The  work  he  did,  the  lore  he  knew  ? 

VTas  he  not  just  ?  Was  any  wronged 
By  that  assured  self-estimate  ? 

He  took  but  what  to  him  belonged, 
Unenvious  of  another's  state. 

Well  might  he  heed  the  words  he  spake, 
And  scan  with  care  the  written  page 

Through  which  he  still  shall  warm  and  wake 
The  hearts  of  men  from  age  to  age. 


Ah  !  who  shall  blame  him  now  because 
He  solaced  thus  his  hours  of  pain  ! 

Should  not  the  o'erworn  thresher  pause, 
And  hold  to  light  his  golden  grain  ? 

No  sense  of  humor  dropped  its  oil 
On  the  hard  ways  his  purpose  went ; 

Small  play  of  fancy  lightened  toil  ; 
He  spake  alone  the  thing  he  meant. 

He  loved  his  books,  the  Art  that  hints 
A  beauty  veiled  behind  its  own, 

The  graver's  line,  the  pencil's  tints, 
The  chisel's  shape  evoked  from  stone. 

He  cherished,  void  of  selfish  ends, 
The  social  courtesies  that  bless 

And  sweeten  life,  and  loved  his  friends 
With  most  unworldly  tenderness. 

But  still  his  tired  eyes  rarely  learned 
The  glad  relief  by  Nature  brought ; 

Her  mountain  ranges  never  turned 
His  current  of  persistent  thought. 

The  sea  rolled  chorus  to  his  speech 

Three-banked  like  Latium's  tall  trireme, 

With  laboring  oars  ;  the  grove  and  beach 
Were  Forum  and  the  Academe. 

The  sensuous  joy  from  all  things  fair 
His  strenuous  bent  of  soul  repressed, 

And  left  from  youth  to  silvered  hair 
Few  hours  for  pleasure,  none  for  rest. 

For  all  his  life  was  poor  without, 
O  Nature,  make  the  last  amends  ! 

Train  all  thy  flowers  his  grave  about, 
And  make  thy  singing-birds  his  friends  ! 

Revive  again,  thou  summer  rain, 
The  broken  turf  upon  his  bed  ! 

Breathe,     summer    wind,     thy     tenderest 

strain 
Of  low,  sweet  music  overhead  ! 

With  calm  and  beauty  symbolize 
The  peace  which  follows  long  annoy, 

And  lend  our  earth-bent,  mourning  eyes, 
Some  hint  of  his  diviner  joy. 

For  safe  with  right  and  truth  he  is, 
As  God  lives  he  must  live  alway  ; 

There  is  no  end  for  souls  like  his, 
No  night  for  children  of  the  day  ' 


210 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


Nor  cant  nor  poor  solicitudes 

Made  weak  his  life's  great  argument ; 
Small  leisure  his  for  frames  and  moods 

Who  followed  Duty  where  she  went. 

The  broad,  fair  fields  of  God  he  saw 
Beyond  the  bigot's  narrow  bound  ; 

The  truths  he  moulded  into  law 
In  Christ's  beatitudes  he  found. 

His  state -craft  was  the  Golden  Rule, 
His  right  of  vote  a  sacred  trust  ; 

Clear,  over  threat  and  ridicule, 

All  heard  his  challenge  :  "  Is  it  just  ?  " 

And  when  the  hour  supreme  had  come, 
Not  for  himself  a  thought  he  gave  ; 

In  that  last  pang  of  martyrdom, 

His  care  was  for  the  half-freed  slave. 

Not  vainly  dusky  hands  upbore, 

In  prayer,  the  passing  soul  to  heaven 

Whose  mercy  to  His  suffering  poor 
Was  service  to  the  Master  given. 

Long  shall  the  good  State's  annals  tell, 
Her  children's  children  long  be  taught, 

How,    praised    or     blamed,    he     guarded 

well 
The  trust  he  neither  shunned  nor  sought. 

[f  for  one  moment  turned  thy  face, 
O  Mother,  from  thy  son,  not  long 

He  waited  calmly  in  his  place 

The  sure  remorse  which  follows  wrong. 

Forgiven  be  the  State  he  loved 
The  one  brief  lapse,  the  single  blot ; 

Forgotten  be  the  stain  removed, 
Her  righted  record  shows  it  not  ! 

The  lifted  sword  above  her  shield 

With  jealous  care  shall  guard  his  fame  ; 

The  pine-tree  on  her  ancient  field 
To  all  the  winds  shall  speak  his  name. 

The  marble  image  of  her  son 

Her  loving  hands  shall  yearly  crown, 

And  from  her  pictured  Pantheon 
His  grand,  majestic  face  look  down. 

0  State  so  passing  rich  before, 

Who  now  shall  doubt  thy  highest  claim  ? 
The  world  that  counts  thy  jewels  o'er 

Shall  longest  pause  at  Sumner's  name  1 


THIERS 


FATE  summoned,  in  gray-bearded  age,  to 

act 

A  history  stranger  than  his  written  fact, 
Him  who  portrayed  the  splendor  and  the 

gloom 
Of  that  great  hour  when  throne  and  altar 

fell 

With  long  death-groan  which  still  is  audi 
ble. 
He,  when  around  the  walls  of  Paris 

rung 

The  Prussian  bugle  like  the  blast  of  doom, 
And  every  ill  which  follows  unblest  war 
Maddened   all   France   from    Finistere  to 

Var, 
The    weight   of    fourscore    from    his 

shoulders  flung. 

And  guided  Freedom  in  the  path  he  saw 
Lead  out  of  chaos  into  light  and  law, 
Peace,  not  imperial,  but  republican, 
And  order  pledged  to  all  the  Rights   of 

Man. 


II 


Death   called  him  from   a  need  as  immi 
nent 
As   that   from  which  the    Silent   William 

went 
When   powers   of   evil,    like    the    smiting 

seas 

On  Holland's  dikes,  assailed  her  liberties. 
Sadly,  while  yet  in  doubtful  balance  hung 
The  weal  and  woe  of  France,  the  bells  were 

rung 

For  her  lost  leader.     Paralyzed  of  will, 
Above  his   bier  the   hearts  of   men   stood 

still. 

Then,  as  if  set  to  his  dead  lips,  the  horn 
Of  Roland  wound  once  more  to  rouse  and 

warn, 
The  old  voice  filled  the  air  !     His  last  brave 

word 
Not  vainly  France  to  all   her   boundaries 

stirred. 
Strong   as    in   life,  he   still   for   Freedom 

wrought, 
As  the  dead  Cid  at  red  Toloso  fought. 


WILLIAM    FRANCIS    BARTLETT 


211 


FITZ-GREENE   HALLECK 

AT   THE    UNVEILING   OF    HIS    STATUE 

AMONG  their  graven  shapes  to  whom 

Thy  civic  wreaths  belong, 
O  city  of  his  love,  make  room 

For  one  whose  gift  was  song. 

Not  his  the  soldier's  sword  to  wield, 

IS' or  his  the  helm  of  state, 
Nor  glory  of  the  stricken  field, 

Nor  triumph  of  debate. 

In  common  ways,  with  common  men, 

He  served  his  race  and  time 
As  well  as  if  his  clerkly  pen 

Had  never  danced  to  rhyme. 

If,  in  the  thronged  and  noisy  mart, 

The  Muses  found  their  son, 
Could  any  say  his  tuneful  art 

A  duty  left  undone  ? 

He  toiled  and  sang  ;  and  year  by  year 
Men  found  their  homes  more  sweet, 

And  through  a  tenderer  atmosphere 
Looked  down  the  brick-walled  street. 

The     Greek's     wild     onset    Wall     Street 
knew  ; 

The  Red  King  walked  Broadway  ; 
And  Alnwick  Castle's  roses  blew 

From  Palisades  to  Bay. 

Fair  City  by  the  Sea  !  upraise 

His  veil  with  reverent  hands  ; 
And  mingle  with  thy  own  the  praise 

And  pride  of  other  lands. 

Let  Greece  his  fiery  lyric  breathe 

Above  her  hero-urns  ; 
And  Scotland,  with  her  holly,  wreathe 

The  flower  he  culled  for  Burns. 

Oh,  stately  stand  thy  palace  walls, 

Thy  tall  ships  ride  the  seas  ; 
To-day  thy  poet's  name  recalls 

A  prouder  thought  than  these. 

Not  less  thy  pulse  of  trade  shall  beat, 

Nor  less  thy  tall  fleets  swim, 
That  shaded  square  and  dusty  street 

Are  classic  ground  through  him. 


Alive,  he  loved,  like  all  who  sing, 

The  echoes  of  his  song  ; 
Too  late  the  tardy  meed  we  bring, 

The  praise  delayed  so  long. 

Too  late,  alas  !     Of  all  who  knew 

The  living  man,  to-day 
Before  his  unveiled  face,  how  few 

Make  bare  their  locks  of  gray  ! 

Our  lips  of  praise  must  soon  be  dumb, 

Our  grateful  eyes  be  dim  ; 
O  brothers  of  the  days  to  come, 

Take  tender  charge  of  him  1 

New  hands  the  wires  of  song  may  sweep, 
New  voices  challenge  fame  ; 

But  let  no  moss  of  years  o'ercreep 
The  lines  of  Halleck's  name. 


WILLIAM  FRANCIS  BARTLETT 

OH,  well  may  Essex  sit  forlorn 

Beside  her  sea-blown  shore; 
Her  well  beloved,  her  noblest  born, 

Is  hers  in  life  no  more  ! 

No  lapse  of  years  can  render  less 

Her  memory's  sacred  claim  ; 
No  fountain  of  forgetfulness 

Can  wet  the  lips  of  Fame. 

A  grief  alike  to  wound  and  heal, 
A  thought  to  soothe  and  pain, 

The  sad,  sweet  pride  that  mothers  feel 
To  her  must  still  remain. 

Good  men  and  true  she  has  not  lackedj 
And  brave  men  yet  shall  be  ; 

The  perfect  flower,  the  crowning  fact, 
Of  all  her  years  was  he  ! 

As  Galahad  pure,  as  Merlin  sage, 
What  worthier  knight  was  found 

To  grace  in  Arthur's  golden  age 
The  fabled  Table  Round  ? 

A  voice,  the  battle's  trumpet-note, 

To  welcome  and  restore  ; 
A  hand,  that  all  unwilling  smote, 

To  heal  and  build  once  more  ! 

A  soul  of  fire,  a  tender  heart 
Too  warm  for  hate,  he  knew 


212 


PERSONAL  POEMS 


The  generous  victor's  graceful  part 
To  sheathe  the  sword  he  drew. 

When  Earth,  as  if  on  evil  dreams, 

Looks  back  upon  her  wars, 
And  the  white  light  of  Christ  outstreams 

From  the  red  disk  of  Mars, 

His  fame  who  led  the  stormy  van 

Of  battle  well  may  cease, 
But  never  that  which  crowns  the  man 

Whose  victory  was  Peace. 

Mourn,  Essex,  on  thy  sea-blown  shore 

Thy  beautiful  and  brave, 
Whose  failing  hand  the  olive  bore, 

Whose  dying  lips  forgave  ! 

Let  age  lament  the  youthful  chief, 

And  tender  eyes  be  dim  ; 
The  tears  are  more  of  joy  than  grief 

That  fall  for  one  like  him  ! 


BAYARD   TAYLOR 

I 

"AND  where  now,  Bayard,  will  thy  foot 
steps  tend  ?  " 
My  sister  asked  our  guest  one  winter's 

day. 
Smiling  he  answered  in  the  Friends'  sweet 

way 
Common  to  both  :  "  Wherever  thou  shalt 

send  ! 
What  wouldst  thou  have  me  see  for  thee  ?  " 

She  laughed, 
Her  dark  eyes  dancing  in  the  wood-fire's 

glow  : 

"  Loffoden  isles,  the  Kilpis,  and  the  low, 
Unsetting  sun  on  Finmark's  fishing-craft." 
"  All  these  and  more  T  soon   shall  see   for 

thee  !" 
He  answered  cheerily  :  and  he  kept  his 

pledge 
On    Lapland  snows,   the  North    Cape's 

windy  wedge, 

And  Tromso  freezing  in  its  winter  sea. 
He  went  and  came.     But  no  man  knows 

the  track 

Of  his  last  journey,  and  he  comes  not 
back  ! 


II 

He  brought  us  wonders  of  the  new  and 


oug 
old; 


We    shared   all  climes  with   him.     The 

Arab's  tent 

To  him  its  story-telling  secret  lent. 
And,  pleased,  we  listened  to  the  tales  he 

told. 
His  task,  beguiled  with  songs  that  shall  en 

dure, 
In     manly,     honest     thoroughness     he 

wrought  ; 
From  humble  home-lays  to  the  heights 

of  thought 
Slowly   he   climbed,   but    every  step   was 

sure. 
How,  with  the  generous  pride  that  friend 

ship  hath, 
We,  who  so  loved  him,  saw  at  last  the 

crown 

Of  civic  honor  on  his  brows  pressed  down, 
Rejoiced,  and  knew  not  that  the  gift  was 

death. 
And  now  for  him,  whose  praise  in  deaf 

ened  ears 

Two  nations  speak,  we  answer  but  with 
tears  ! 


ill 


O  Vale  of  Chester  !  trod  by  him  so  oft, 
Green  as  thy  June  turf  keep  his  memory. 

Let 
NOT  wood,  nor  dell,  nor  storied  stream 

forget, 

Nor  winds  that  blow  round  lonely  Cedar- 
croft  ; 

Let  the  home  voices  greet  him  in  the  far, 
Strange  land   that  holds   him  ;    let  the 

messages 
Of  love  pursue  him  o'er  the  chartless 

seas 
And  unmapped  vastness  of   his  unknown 

star  ! 
Love's  language,   heard  beyond   the   loud 

discourse 

Of  perishable  fame,  in  every  sphere 
Itself  interprets  ;  and  its  utterance  here 
Somewhere  in  God's  unfolding  universe 
Shall  reach  our  traveller,  softening  the 

surprise 
Of  his  rapt  gaze  on  unfamiliar  skies  ! 


WITHIN   THE  GATE 


213 


OUR   AUTOCRAT 

Read  at  the  breakfast  given  in  honor  of  Dr. 
Holmes  by  the  publishers  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly,  December  3,  1879. 

His  laurels  fresh  from  song  and  lay, 
Romance,  art,  science,  rich  in  all, 

And  young  of  heart,  how  dare  we  say 
We  keep  his  seventieth  festival  ? 

No  sense  is  here  of  loss  or  lack  ; 

Before  his  sweetness  and  his  light 
The  dial  holds  its  shadow  back, 

The  charmed  hours  delay  their  flight. 

His  still  the  keen  analysis 

Of  men  and  moods,  electric  wit, 

Free  play  of  mirth,  and  tenderness 
To  heal  the  slightest  wound  from  it. 

And  his  the  pathos  touching  all 

Life's  sins  and  sorrows  and  regrets, 

Its  hopes  and  fears,  its  final  call 
And  rest  beneath  the  violets. 

His  sparkling  surface  scarce  betrays 
The  thoughtful  tide  beneath  it  rolled, 

The  wisdom  of  the  latter  days, 
And  tender  memories  of  the  old. 

What  shapes  and  fancies,  grave  or  gay, 
Before  us  at  his  bidding  come  ! 

The  Treadmill  tramp,  the  One-Horse  Shay, 
The  dumb  despair  of  Elsie's  doom  ! 

The  tale  of  Avis  and  the  Maid, 

The  plea  for  lips  that  cannot  speak, 

The  holy  kiss  that  Iris  laid 

On  Little  Boston's  pallid  cheek  ! 

Long  may  he  live  to  sing  for  us 

His  sweetest  songs  at  evening  time, 

And,  like  his  Chambered  Nautilus, 
To  holier  heights  of  beauty  climb  ! 

Though  now  unnumbered  guests  surround 
The  table  that  he  rules  at  will, 

Its  Autocrat,  however  crowned, 

Is  but  our  friend  and  comrade  still. 

The  world  may  keep  his  honored  name, 
The  wealth  of  all  his  varied  powers  ; 

A  stronger  claim  has  love  than  fame, 
And  he  himself  is  only  ours ! 


WITHIN   THE   GATE 

L.    M.   C. 

I  have  more  fully  expressed  my  admiration 
and  regard  for  Lydia  Maria  Child  in  the  bio 
graphical  introduction  which  I  wrote  for  the 
volume  of  Letters,  published  after  her  death. 

WE  sat  together,  last  May-day,  and  talked 
Of  the  dear  friends  who  walked 

Beside  us,  sharers  of  the  hopes  and  fears 
Of  five  and  forty  years, 

Since  first  we  met  in  Freedom's  hope  for 
lorn, 

And  heard  her  battle-horn 
Sound  through  the  valleys  of  the  sleeping 

North, 
Calling  her  children  forth, 

And   youth   pressed   forward   with    hope- 
lighted  eyes, 

And  age,  with  forecast  wise 
Of  the  long  strife  before  the  triumph  won, 

Girded  his  armor  on. 

Sadly,  as  name  by  name  we  called  the  roll, 
We  heard  the  dead-bells  toll 

For  the  unanswering  many,  and  we  knew 
The  living  were  the  few. 

And  we,  who  waited  our  own  call  before 

The  inevitable  door, 

Listened  and  looked,  as  all  have  done,  to 
win 

Some  token  from  within. 

No  sign  we  saw,  we  heard  no  voices  call ; 

The  impenetrable  wall 
Cast  down  its  shadow,  like  an  awful  doubt, 

On  all  who  sat  without. 

Of  many  a  hint  of  life  beyond  the  veil, 

And  many  a  ghostly  tale 
Wherewith  the  ages  spanned  the  gulf  be 
tween 

The  seen  and  the  unseen, 

Seeking  from  omen,  trance,  and  dream  to 

gain 

Solace  to  doubtful  pain, 
And  touch,  with  groping  hands,  the  gar 
ment  hem 
Of  truth  sufficing  them, 


214 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


We  talked  ;    and,  turning  from   the  sore 
unrest 

Of  an  all-baffling  quest, 
We  thought  of  holy  lives  that  from  us  passed 

Hopeful  unto  the  last, 

As  if  they  saw  beyond  the  river  of  death, 

Like  Him  of  Nazareth, 
The  many  mansions  of  the  Eternal  days 

Lift  up  their  gates  of  praise. 

Arid,  hushed  to  silence  by  a  reverent  awe, 

Methought,  O  friend,  I  saw 
In  thy  true   life  of  word,  and  work,   and 
thought 

The  proof  of  all  we  sought. 

Did  we  not  witness  in  the  life  of  thee 

Immortal  prophecy  ? 

And  feel,  when  with  thee,  that  thy  footsteps 
trod 

An  everlasting  road  ? 

Not  for  brief  days  thy  generous  sympathies, 

Thy  scorn  of  selfish  ease  ; 
Not  for  the  poor  prize  of  an  earthly  goal 

Thy  strong  uplift  of  sold. 

Than  thine  was  never  turned  a  fonder  heart 

To  nature  and  to  art 
In  fair-formed  Hellas  in  her  golden  prime, 

Thy  Philothea's  time. 

Yet,  loving  beauty,  thou  couldst  pass  it  by, 

And  for  the  poor  deny 

Thyself,  and  see  thy  fresh,  sweet  flower  of 
fame 

Wither  in  blight  and  blame. 

Sharing  His  love  who  holds  in  His  embrace 

The  lowliest  of  our  race, 
Sure  the  Divine  economy  must  be 

Conservative  of  thee  ! 

For  truth  must  live  with  truth,  self-sacri 
fice 

Seek  out  its  great  allies  ; 
Good  must  find  good  by  gravitation  sure, 

And  love  with  love  endure. 

And  so,  since  thou  hast  passed  within  the 
gate 

Whereby  awhile  I  wait, 
I  give  blind  grief  and  blinder  sense  the  lie  : 

Thou  hast  not  lived  to  die  ! 


IN  MEMORY 

JAMES   T.   FIELDS 

As  a  guest  who  may  not  stay 
Long  and  sad  farewells  to  say 
Glides  with  smiling  face  away, 

Of  the  sweetness  and  the  zest 
Of  thy  happy  life  possessed 
Thou  hast  left  us  at  thy  best. 

Warm  of  heart  and  clear  of  brain, 
Of  thy  sun-bright  spirit's  wane 
Thou  hast  spared  us  all  the  pain. 

Now  that  thou  hast  gone  away, 
What  is  left  of  one  to  say 
Who  was  open  as  the  day  ? 

What  is  there  to  gloss  or  shun  ? 
Save  with  kindly  voices  none 
Speak  thy  name  beneath  the  sun. 

Safe  thou  art  on  every  side, 
Friendship  nothing  finds  to  hide, 
Love's  demand  is  satisfied. 

Over  manly  strength  and  worth, 
At  thy  desk  of  toil,  or  hearth, 
Played  the  lambent  light  of  mirth,  — 

Mirth  that  lit,  but  never  burned  ; 
All  thy  blame  to  pity  turned  ; 
Hatred  thou  hadst  never  learned. 

Every  harsh  and  vexing  thing 
At  thy  home-fire  lost  its  sting  ; 
Where  thou  wast  was  always  spring. 

And  thy  perfect  trust  in  good, 
Faith  in  man  and  womanhood, 
Chance  and  change  and  time  withstood 

Small  respect  for  cant  and  whine, 
Bigot's  zeal  and  hate  malign, 
Had  that  sunny  soul  of  thine. 

But  to  thee  was  duty's  ",laim 
Sacred,  and  thy  lips  became 
Reverent  with  one  holy  Name. 

Therefore,  on  thy  unknown  way, 
Go  in  God's  peace  !     We  who  stay 
But  a  little  while  delay. 


THE   POET   AND  THE   CHILDREN 


Keep  for  us,  O  friend,  where'er 
Thou  art  waiting,  all  that  here 
Made  thy  earthly  presence  dear  ; 

Something  of  thy  pleasant  past 
On  a  ground  of  wonder  cast, 
In  the  stiller  waters  glassed  ! 

Keep  the  human  heart  of  thee  ; 
Let  the  mortal  only  be 
Clothed  in  immortality. 

And  when  fall  our  feet  as  fell 

Thine  upon  the  asphodel, 

Let  thy  old  smile  greet  us  well  ; 

Proving  in  a  world  of  hliss 
What  we  fondly  dream  in  this,  — 
Love  is  one  with  holiness  ! 


WILSON 

Read  at  the  Massachusetts  Club  on  the  seven 
tieth  anniversary  of  the  birthday  of  Vice-Pres- 
ident  Wilson,  February  10,  1882. 

THE  lowliest  born  of  all  the  land, 
He  wrung  from  Fate's  reluctant  hand 

The  gifts  which  happier  boyhood  claims  ; 
And,  tasting  on  a  thankless  soil 
The  bitter  bread  of  unpaid  toil, 

He  fed  his  soul  with  noble  aims. 

And  Nature,  kindly  provident, 
To  him  the  future's  promise  lent  ; 

The  powers  that  shape  man's  destinies, 
Patience  and  faith  and  toil,  he  knew, 
The  close  horizon  round  him  grew 

Broad  with  great  possibilities. 

By  the  low  hearth-fire's  fitful  blaze 
He  read  of  old  heroic  days, 

The  sage's  thought,  the  patriot's  speech  j 
Unhelped,  alone,  himself  he  taught, 
His  school  the  craft  at  which  he  wrought, 

His  lore  the  book  within  his  reach. 

He  felt  his  country's  need  ;  he  knew 
The  work  her  children  had  to  do  ; 

And  when,  at  last,  he  heard  the  call 
In  her  behalf  to  serve  and  dare, 
Beside  his  senatorial  chair 

He    stood    the    unquestioned    peer    of 
all. 


Beyond  the  accident  of  birth 

He  proved  his  simple  manhood's  worth  ; 

Ancestral  pride  and  classic  grace 
Confessed  the  large-brained  artisan, 
So  clear  of  sight,  so  wise  in  plan 

And  counsel,  equal  to  his  place. 

With  glance  intuitive  he  saw 
Through  all  disguise  of  form  and  law, 

And  read  men  like  an  open  book  ; 
Fearless  and  firm,  he  never  quailed 
Nor  turned  aside  for  threats,  nor  failed 

To  do  the  thing  he  undertook. 

How  wise,  how  brave,  he  was,  how  well 
He  bore  himself,  let  history  tell 

While  waves  our  flag  o'er  land  and  sea, 
No  black  thread  in  its  warp  or  weft ; 
He  found  dissevered  States,  he  left 

A  grateful  Nation,  strong  and  free  ! 


THE  POET  AND  THE  CHILDREN 

LONGFELLOW 

WITH  a  glory  of  winter  sunshine 

Over  his  locks  of  gray, 
In  the  old  historic  mansion 

He  sat  on  his  last  birthday  ; 

With  his  books  and  his  pleasant  pictures, 
And  his  household  and  his  kin, 

While  a  sound  as  of  myriads  singing 
From  far  and  near  stole  in. 

It  came  from  his  own  fair  city, 

From  the  prairie's  boundless  plain, 

From  the  Golden  Gate  of  sunset, 
And  the  cedarn  woods  of  Maine. 

And  his  heart  grew  warm  within  him, 
And  his  moistening  eyes  grew  dim, 

For  he  knew  that  his  country's  children 
Were  singing  the  songs  of  him  : 

The  lays  of  his  life's  glad  morning, 
The  psalms  of  his  evening  time, 

Whose  echoes  shall  float  forever 
On  the  winds  of  every  clime. 

All  their  beautiful  consolations, 

Sent  forth  like  birds  of  cheer, 
Came  flocking  back  to  his  windows, 

And  sang  in  the  Poet's  ear. 


2l6 


PERSONAL   POEMS 


Grateful,  but  solemn  and  tender, 

The  music  rose  and  fell 
With  a  joy  akin  to  sadness 

And  a  greeting  like  farewell. 

With  a  sense  of  awe  he  listened 
To  the  voices  sweet  and  young  ; 

The  last  of  earth  and  the  first  of  heaven 
Seemed  in  the  songs  they  sung. 

And  waiting  a  little  longer 

For  the  wonderful  change  to  come, 
He  heard  the  Summoning  Angel, 

Who  calls  God's  children  home  ! 

And  to  him  in  a  holier  welcome 
Was  the  mystical  meaning  given 

Of  the  words  of  the  blessed  Master  : 
"  Of  such  is  the  kingdom  of  heaven  !  " 


A   WELCOME   TO    LOWELL 

TAKE  our  hands,  James  Russell  Lowell. 

Our  hearts  are  all  thy  own  ; 
To-day  we  bid  thee  welcome 

Not  for  ourselves  alone. 

In  the  long  years  of  thy  absence 

Some  of  us  have  grown  old, 
And  some  have  passed  the  portals 

Of  the  Mystery  untold  ; 

For  the  hands  that  cannot  clasp  thee, 
For  the  voices  that  are  dumb, 

For  each  and  all  I  bid  thee 
A  grateful  welcome  home  ! 

For  Cedarcroft's  sweet  singer 
To  the  nine-fold  Muses  dear  ; 

For  the  Seer  the  winding  Concord 
Paused  by  his  door  to  hear  ; 

For  him,  our  guide  and  Nestor, 
Who  the  march  of  song  began, 

The  white  locks  of  his  ninety  years 
Bared  to  thy  winds,  Cape  Ann  ! 

For  him  who,  to  the  music 

Her  pines  and  hemlocks  played, 

Set  the  old  and  tender  story 
Of  the  lorn  Acadian  maid  ; 


For  him,  whose  voice  for  freedom 
Swayed  friend  and  foe  at  will, 

Hushed  is  the  tongue  of  silver, 
The  golden  lips  are  still ! 

For  her  whose  life  of  duty 
At  scoff  and  menace  smiled, 

Brave  as  the  wife  of  Roland, 
Yet  gentle  as  a  Child. 

And  for  him  the  three-hilled  city 
Shall  hold  in  memory  long, 

Whose  name  is  the  hint  and  token 
Of  the  pleasant  Fields  of  Song  ! 

For  the  old  friends  unforgotten, 

For  the  young  thou  hast  not  known, 

I  speak  their  heart-warm  greeting  ; 
Come  back  and  take  thy  own  ! 

From  England's  royal  farewells, 

And  honors  fitly  paid, 
Come  back,  dear  Russell  Lowell, 

To  Elmwood's  waiting  shade  ! 

Come  home  with  all  the  garlands 
That  crown  of  right  thy  head. 

I  speak  for  comrades  living, 
I  speak  for  comrades  dead  ! 


AN  ARTIST  OF  THE  BEAUTIFUL 

GEORGE   FULLER 

HAUNTED  of  Beauty,  like  the  marvellous 

youth 
Who  sang  Saint  Agnes'  Eve  !     How  passing 

fair 

Her  shapes  took  color  in  thy  homestead  air  ! 
How  on  thy  canvas  even  her  dreams  were 

truth  ! 

Magician  !  who  from  commonest  elements 
Called  up  divine  ideals,  clothed  upon 
By  mystic  lights  soft  blending  into  one 
Womanly  grace  and  child-like  innocence. 
Teacher  !   thy  lesson  was  not  given  in  vain, 
Beauty  is  goodness  ;  ugliness  is  sin  : 
Art's  place  is  sacred  :  nothing  foul  therein 
May  crawl  or  tread  with  bestial  feet  profane 
If  rightly  choosing  is  the  painter's  test, 
Thy  choice,  O  master,  ever  was  the  best. 


SAMUEL   J.  TILDEN 


217 


MULFORD 
Author  of  The  Nation  and  The  Eepublic  of  God. 

UNNOTED  as  the  setting  of  a  star 

He  passed  ;  and  sect  and  party  scarcely 

knew 
When  from  their  midst  a  sage  and  seer 

withdrew 

To  fitter  audience,  where  the  great  dead  are 
In  God's  republic  of  the  heart  and  mind, 
Leaving  no  purer,  nobler  soul  behind. 

TO   A   CAPE   ANN    SCHOONER 

LUCK  to  the  craft  that  bears  this  name  of 

mine, 

Good  fortune  follow  with  her  golden  spoon 
The  glazed  hat  and  tarry  pantaloon  ; 
And  wheresoe'er  her  keel  shall  cut  the  brine, 
Cod,  hake  and  haddock  quarrel  for  her  line. 
Shipped  with  her  crew,  whatever  wind  may 

blow, 

Or  tides  delay,  my  wish  with  her  shall  go, 
Fishing  by  proxy.      Would  that  it  might 

show 

At  need  her  course,  in  lack  of  sun  and  star, 
Where  icebergs    threaten,  and   the    sharp 

reefs  are  ; 

Lift  the  blind  fog  on  Anticosti's  lee 
And  Avalon's  rock  ;  make  populous  the  sea 


Round    Grand    Manan    with    eager    finny 

swarms, 
Break  the  long  calms,  and  charm  away  the 

storms. 

SAMUEL   J.    TILDEN 

GREYSTOXE,    AUGUST    4,    1  886 

ONCE  more,  O  all-adjusting  Death  ! 

The  nation's  Pantheon  opens  wide  ; 
Once  more  a  common  sorrow  saith 

A  strong,  wise  man  has  died. 

Faults  doubtless  had  he.     Had  we  not 
Our  own,  to  question  and  asperse 

The  worth  we  doubted  or  forgot 
Until  beside  his  hearse  ? 


Ambitious,  cautious,  yet  the  man 
To  strike  clown  fraud  with  resolu 

A  patriot,  if  a  partisan, 
He  loved  his  native  land. 


So  let  the  mourning  bells  be  rung, 
The  banner  droop  its  folds  half  ways 

And  while  the  public  pen  and  tongue 
Their  fitting  tribute  pay, 

Shall  we  not  vow  above  his  bier 
To  set  our  feet  on  party  lies, 

And  wound  no  more  a  living  ear 
With  words  that  Death  denies  ? 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


EVA 

Suggested  by  Mrs.  Stowe's  tale  of  Uncle 
Tom's  Cabin,  and  written  when  the  characters 
in  the  tale  were  realities  by  the  fireside  of 
countless  American  homes. 

DRY  the  tears  for  holy  Eva, 
With  the  blessed  angels  leave  her  ; 
Of  the  form  so  soft  and  fair 
Give  to  earth  the  tender  care. 

For  the  golden  locks  of  Eva 
Let  the  sunny  south-land  give  her 
Flowery  pillow  of  repose, 
Orange-bloom  and  budding  rose. 

In  the  better  home  of  Eva 
Let  the  shining  ones  receive  her, 
With  the  welcome-voiced  psalm, 
Harp  of  gold  and  waving  palm  ! 

All  is  light  and  peace  with  Eva  ; 
There  the  darkness  cometh  never  ; 
Tears  are  wiped,  and  fetters  fall, 
And  the  Lord  is  all  in  all. 

Weep  no  more  for  happy  Eva, 
Wrong  and  sin  no  more  shall  grieve  her  ; 
Care  and  pain  and  weariness 
Lost  in  love  so  measureless. 

Gentle  Eva,  loving  Eva, 
Child  confessor,  true  believer, 
Listener  at  the  Master's  knee, 
"  Suffer  such  to  come  to  me." 

Oh,  for  faith  like  thine,  sweet  Eva, 
Lighting  all  the  solemn  river, 
And  the  blessings  of  the  poor 
Wafting  to  the  heavenly  shore  ! 


A   LAY    OF    OLD    TIME 


Written  for  the  Essex  County  Agricultural 
Fair,  and  sung1  at  the  banquet  at  Newburyport, 
October  2,  1856. 


ONE  morning  of  the  first  sad  Fall, 

Poor  Adam  and  his  bride 
Sat  in  the  shade  of  Eden's  wall  — 

But  on  the  outer  side. 

She,  blushing  in  her  fig-leaf  suit 

For  the  chaste  garb  of  old  ; 
He,  sighing  o'er  his  bitter  fruit 

For  Eden's  drupes  of  gold. 

Behind  them,  smiling  in  the  morn, 

Their  forfeit  garden  lay, 
Before  them,  wild  with  rock  and  thorn, 

The  desert  stretched  away. 

They  heard  the  air  above  them  fanned, 

A  light  step  on  the  sward, 
And  lo  !  they  saw  before  them  stand 

The  angel  of  the  Lord  ! 

"  Arise,"  he  said,  "  why  look  behind, 

When  hope  is  all  before, 
And  patient  hand  and  willing  mind 

Your  loss  may  yet  restore  ? 

"  I  leave  with  you  a  spell  whose  power 

Can  make  the  desert  glad, 
And  call  around  you  fruit  and  flower 

As  fair  as  Eden  had. 

"  I  clothe  your  hands  with  power  to  lift 
The  curse  from  off  your  soil  ; 

Your  very  doom  shall  seem  a  gift, 
Your  loss  a  gain  through  Toil. 

"  Go,  cheerful  as  yon  humming-bees, 

To  labor  as  to  play." 
White  glimmering  over  Eden's  trees 

The  angel  passed  away. 

The  pilgrims  of  the  world  went  forth 

Obedient  to  the  word, 
And  found  where'er  they  tilled  the  earth 

A  garden  of  the  Lord  ! 


218 


The  thorn-tree  cast  its  evil  fruit 
And  blushed  with  plum  and  pear. 


KENOZA   LAKE 


219 


And  seeded  grass  and  trodden  root 
Grew  sweet  beneath  their  care. 

We  share  our  primal  parents'  fate, 
And,  in  our  turn  and  day, 

Look  back  on  Eden's  sworded  gate 
As  sad  and  lost  as  they. 

But  still  for  us  his  native  skies 
The  pitying  Angel  leaves, 

And  leads  through  Toil  to  Paradise 
New  Adams  and  new  Eves  ! 


A   SONG   OF   HARVEST 

For  the  Agricultural  and  Horticultural  Exhi 
bition  at  Amesbury  and  Salisbury,  September 

28,  1858. 

THIS  day,  two  hundred  years  ago, 
The  wild  grape  by  the  river's  side, 
tasteless  groundnut  trailing  low, 
The  table  of  the  woods  supplied. 

Unknown  the  apple's  red  and  gold, 
The  blushing  tint  of  peach  and  pear  ; 

The  mirror  of  the  Powow  told 
No  tale  of  orchards  ripe  and  rare. 

Wild  as  the  fruits  he  scorned  to  till, 
These  vales  the  idle  Indian  trod  ; 

Nor  knew  the  glad,  creative  skill, 
The  joy  of  him  who  toils  with  God. 

O  Painter  of  the  fruits  and  flowers  ! 

We  thank  Thee  for  thy  wise  design 
Whereby  these  human  hands  of  ours 

In  Nature's  garden  work  with  Thine. 

And  thanks  that  from  our  daily  need 
The  joy  of  simple  faith  is  born  ; 

That  he  who  smites  the  summer  weed, 
May  trust  Thee  for  the  autumn  corn. 

Give   fools   their   gold,    and   knaves   their 
power  ; 

Let  fortune's  bubbles  rise  and  fall  ; 
Who  sows  a  field,  or  trains  a  flower, 

Or  plants  a  tree,  is  more  than  all. 

For  he  who  blesses  most  is  blest  ; 

And  God  and  man  shall  own  his  worth 
Who  toils  to  leave  as  his  bequest 

An  added  beauty  to  the  earth. 


And,  soon  or  late,  to  all  that  sow, 
The  time  of  harvest  shall  be  given  ; 

The  flower  shall  bloom,  the  fruit  shall  grow> 
If  not  on  earth,  at  last  in  heaven. 


KENOZA  LAKE 

This  beautiful  lake  in  East  Haverhill  was  the 
"  Great  Pond  "  of  the  writer's  boyhood.  In 
1859  a  movement  was  made  for  improving1  its 
shores  as  a  public  park.  At  the  opening1  of  the 
park,  August  31,  1859,  the  poem  which  gave  it 
the  name  of  Kenoza  (iu  the  Indian  language 
signifying  Pickerel)  was  read. 

As  Adam  did  in  Paradise, 

To-day  the  primal  right  we  claim  : 
Fair  mirror  of  the  woods  and  skies, 

We  give  to  thee  a  name. 

Lake  of  the  pickerel  !  —  let  no  more 

The  echoes  answer  back,  "  Great  Pond," 

But  sweet  Kenoza,  from  thy  shore 
And  watching  hills  beyond, 

Let  Indian  ghosts,  if  such  there  be 
Who  ply  unseen  their  shadowy  lines, 

Call  back  the  ancient  name  to  thee, 
As  with  the  voice  of  pines. 

The  shores  we  trod  as  barefoot  boys, 

The  nutted  woods  we  wandered  through, 

To  friendship,  love,  and  social  joys 
We  consecrate  anew. 

Here  shall  the  tender  song  be  sung, 
And  memory's  dirges  soft  and  low, 

And  wit  shall  sparkle  on  the  tongue, 
And  mirth  shall  overflow, 


summer  lightning  plays 
/•,  hidden  cloud  by  night, 


Harmless  as  summer  lij 

From  a  low, 
A  light  to  set  the  hills  ablaze, 

But  not  a  bolt  to  smite. 


In  sunny  South  and  prairied  West 
Are  exiled  hearts  remembering  still, 

As  bees  their  hive,  as  birds  their  nest, 
The  homes  of  Haverhill. 

They  join  us  in  our  rites  to-day  ; 

And,  listening,  we  may  hear,  erelong, 
From  inland  lake  and  ocean  bay, 

The  echoes  of  our  song. 


220 


OCCASIONAL   POEMb 


Kenoza  !  o'er  no  sweeter  lake 

Shall  morning  break  or  noon-cloud  sail,- 
No  fairer  face  than  thine  shall  take 

The  sunset's  golden  veil. 

Long  be  it  ere  the  tide  of  trade 

Shall  break  with  harsh-resounding  din 

The  quiet  of  thy  banks  of  shade, 
And  hills  that  fold  thee  in. 

•Still  let  thy  woodlands  hide  the  hare, 
The  shy  loon  sound  his  trumpet-note. 

Wind-weary  from  his  fields  of  air, 
The  wild-goose  on  thee  float. 

Thy  peace  rebuke  our  feverish  stir, 
Thy  beauty  our  deforming  strife  ; 

Thy  woods  and  waters  minister 
The  healing  of  their  life. 

fVnd  sinless  Mirth,  from  care  released, 
Behold,  unawed,  thy  mirrored  sky, 

Smiling  as  smiled  on  Cana's  feast 
The  Master's  loving  eye. 

And  when  the  summer  day  grows  dim, 
And  light  mists  walk  thy  mimic  sea, 

Revive  in  us  the  thought  of  Him 
Who  walked  on  Galilee  ! 


FOR   AN   AUTUMN    FESTIVAL 

THE  Persian's  flowery  gifts,  the  shrine 
Of  fruitful  Ceres  charm  no  more  ; 

The  woven  wreaths  of  oak  and  pine 
Are  dust  along  the  Isthmian  shore. 

But  beauty  hath  its  homage  still, 
And  nature  holds  us  still  in  debt ; 

And  woman's  grace  and  household  skill, 
And  manhood's  toil,  are  honored  yet. 

And  we,  to-day,  amidst  our  flowers 
And  fruits,  have  come  to  own  again 

The  blessings  of  the  summer  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ; 

To  see  our  Father's  hand  once  more 
Reverse  for  us  the  plenteous  horn 

Of  autumn,  filled  and  running  o'er 

With  fruit,  and  flower,  .and  golden  corn  ! 

Once  more  the  liberal  year  laughs  out 
O'er  richer  stores  than  gems  or  gold  ; 


Once  more  with  harvest-song  and  shout 
Is  Nature's  bloodless  triumph  told. 

Our  common  mother  rests  and  sings, 
Like  Ruth,  among  her  garnered  sheaves 

Her  lap  is  full  of  goodly  things, 

Her  brow  is  bright  with  auturan  leaves. 

Oh,  favors  every  year  made  new  ! 

Oh,  gifts  with  rain  and  sunshine  sent  J 
The  bounty  overruns  our  due, 

The  fulness  shames  our  discontent. 

We  shut  our  eyes,  the  flowers  bloom  on  •, 
We  murmur,  but  the  corn-ears  fill, 

We  choose  the  shadow,  but  the  sun 
That  casts  it  shines  behind  us  still. 

God  gives  us  with  our  rugged  soil 
The  power  to  make  it  Eden-fair, 

And  richer  fruits  to  crown  our  toil 
Than  summer-wedded  islands  bear. 

Who  murmurs  at  his  lot  to-day  ? 

Who  scorns  his  native  fruit  and  bloom  ? 
Or  sighs  for  dainties  far  away, 

Beside  the  bounteous  board  of  home  ? 

Thank  Heaven,  instead,  that  Freedom's  arm 
Can  change  a  rocky  soil  to  gold,  — 

That  brave  and  generous  lives  can  warm 
A  clime  with  northern  ices  cold. 

And  let  these  altars,  wreathed  with  flowers 
And  piled  with  fruits,  awake  again 

Thanksgivings  for  the  golden  hours, 
The  early  and  the  latter  rain  ! 


THE    QUAKER   ALUMNI 

Read  at  the    Friends'   School   Anniversary. 
Providence,  R.  L,  6th  mo.,  1860. 

FROM  the  well-springs  of  Hudson,  the  sea- 
cliffs  of  Maine, 

Grave  men,  sober  matrons,  you  gather 
again  ; 

And,  with  hearts  warmer  grown  as  your 
heads  grow  more  cool, 

Play  over  the  old  game  of  going  to  school. 

All  your  strifes  and  vexations,  your  whims 

and  complaints, 
(You    were   not  saints   yourselves,   if  the 

children  of  saints  !) 


THE  QUAKER   ALUMNI 


221 


Ml  your  petty  self-seekings  and  rivalries 

done, 
Round  the  dear  Alma  Mater  your  hearts 

beat  as  one  ! 

How  widely  soe'er  you  have  strayed  from 

the  fold, 
Though  your  "  thee  "  has  grown  "  you,"  and 

your  drab  blue  and  gold, 
To  the  old  friendly  speech  and  the  garb's 

sober  form, 
Like  the  heart  of  Argyle  to  the  tartan,  you 

warm. 

But,  the  first  greetings   over,  you  glance 

round  the  hall  ; 
Your  hearts  call  the  roll,  but  they  answer 

not  all : 
Through  the  turf  green  above  them  the  dead 

cannot  hear  ; 
Name  by  name,  in  the  silence,  falls  sad  as 

a  tear  ! 

In  love,  let  us  trust,  they  were  summoned 

so  soon 
From  the  morning  of  life,  while   we  toil 

through  its  noon  ; 
They  were  frail  like   ourselves,  they  had 

needs  like  our  own, 
And  they  rest  as  we  rest  in  God's  mercy 

alone. 

Unchanged  by  our  changes  of  spirit  and 

frame, 
Past,  now,  and  henceforward  the  Lord  is 

the  same  ; 
Though  we  sink  in  the  darkness,  His  arms 

break  our  fall, 
And  in  death  as  in  life,  He  is  Father  of 

all! 

We  are  older  :    our  footsteps,  so  light  in 

the  play 
Of  the  far-away  school-time,  move  slower 

to-day  ;  — 
Here  a  beard  touched  with  frost,  there  a 

bald,  shining  crown, 
And  beneath  the  cap's  border  gray  mingles 

with  brown. 

But    faith   should  be  cheerful,  and    trust 

should  be  glad, 
And  our  follies  and  sins,  not  our  years,  make 

us  sad. 


Should  the  heart  closer  shut  as  the  bonne* 

grows  prim, 
And  the  face  grow  in  length  as  the  hat  grows 

in  brim  ? 

Life  is  brief,  duty  grave  ;  but,  witli  rain- 
folded  wings, 

Of  yesterday's  sunshine  the  grateful  heart 
sings  ; 

And  we,  of  all  others,  have  reason  to  pay 

The  tribute  of  thanks,  and  rejoice  on  our 
way  ; 

For  the  counsels  that  turned  from  the  follies 
of  youth  ; 

For  the  beauty  of  patience,  the  whiteness  of 
truth  ; 

For  the  wounds  of  rebuke,  when  love  tem 
pered  its  edge  ; 

For  the  household's  restraint,  and  the  disci 
pline's  hedge  ; 

For  the  lessons  of  kindness  vouchsafed  to 

the  least 
Of  the  creatures  of  God,  whether  human 

or  beast, 
Bringing  hope  to  the  poor,  lending  strength 

to  the  frail, 
In  the  lanes  of  the  city,  the  slave-hut,  and 

jail  ; 

For  a  womanhood  higher  and  holier,  by  all 
Her  knoAvledge  of  good,  than  was  Eve  ere 

her  fall ,  — 
Whose  task-work  of  duty  moves  lightly  as 

play, 
Serene  as  the  moonlight  and  warm  as  the 

day; 

And,  yet  more,  for  the  faith  which  embraces 

the  whole, 
Of  the  creeds  of  the  ages  the  life  and  the 

soul, 
Wherein  letter  and  spirit  the  same  channel 

run, 
And  man  has  not  severed  what  God  has 

made  one  ! 

For  a  sense  of  the  Goodness  revealed  every* 

where, 

As  sunshine  impartial,  and  free  as  the  air  ; 
For  a  trust  in  humanity,  Heathen  or  Jew, 
And  a   hope   for   all  darkness   the   Light 

shineth  through. 


222 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


Who  scoffs  at  our  birthright  ?  —  the  words 

of  the  seers, 
And  the  songs  of  the  bards  in  the  twilight 

of  years, 
All  the  foregleams  of  wisdom  in  santon  and 


In  prophet  and  priest,  are  our  true  heritage. 

The  Word  which  the  reason  of  Plato  dis 
cerned  ; 

The  truth,  as  whose  symbol  the  Mithra-fire 
burned  ; 

The  soul  of  the  world  which  the  Stoic  but 
guessed, 

In  the  Light  Universal  the  Quaker  con 
fessed  ! 

No  honors  of  war  to  our  worthies  be 
long  ; 

Their  plain  stem  of  life  never  flowered  into 
song; 

But  the  fountains  they  opened  still  gush  by 
the  way, 

And  the  world  for  their  healing  is  better  to 
day. 

He  who  lies  where  the  minster's  groined 

arches  curve  down 
To  the  tomb-crowded  transept  of  England's 

renown, 

The  glorious  essayist,  by  genius  enthroned, 
Whose   pen   as   a   sceptre  the    Muses  all 

owned,  — 

Who  through  the  world's  pantheon  walked 

in  his  pride, 
Setting  new  statues  up,  thrusting  old  ones 

aside, 

And  in  fiction  the  pencils  of  history  dipped, 
To  gild  o'er  or  blacken  each  saint  in  his 

crypt,  — 

How    vainly    he    labored    to    sully    with 

blame 
The  white  bust  of  Penn,  in  the  niche  of  his 

fame  ! 
Self  -  will  is  self  -  wounding,  perversity 

blind  : 
On  himself  fell  the  stain  for  the  Quaker 

designed  ! 

For  the  sake  of  his  true-hearted  father  be 
fore  him  ; 

For  the  sake  of  the  dear  Quaker  mother 
that  bore  him  j 


For  the  sake  of  his  gifts,  and  the  works  that 

outlive  him, 
And  his  brave  words  for  freedom,  we  freely 

forgive  him  ! 

There  are  those  who  take  note  that  our 
numbers  are  small,  — 

New  Gibbons  who  write  our  decline  and  our 
fall  ; 

But  the  Lord  of  the  seed-field  takes  care  of 
His  own, 

And  the  world  shall  yet  reap  what  our  sow 
ers  have  sown. 

The  last  of  the  sect  to  his  fathers  may  go, 

Leaving  only  his  coat  for  some  Barnum  to 
show  ; 

But  the  truth  will  outlive  him,  and  broaden 
with  years, 

Till  the  false  dies  away,  and  the  wrong  dis 
appears. 

Nothing  fails  of  its  end.     Out    of    sight 

sinks  the  stone, 
In  the   deep  sea  of  time,  but  the  circles 

sweep  on, 
Till  the  low-rippled  murmurs   along    the 

shores  run, 
And  the  dark  and  dead  waters  leap  glad  in 

the  sun. 

Meanwhile  shall  we  learn,  in  our  ease,  to 

forget 
To  the  martyrs  of  Truth  and  of  Freedom 

our  debt  ?  — 
Hide  their  words  out  of  sight,  like  the  garb 

that  they  wore, 
And  for  Barclay's  Apology  offer  one  more  ? 

Shall  we  fawn  round  the  priestcraft  that 
glutted  the  shears, 

And  festooned  the  stocks  with  our  grand 
fathers'  ears  ? 

Talk  of  Woolman's  unsoundness  ?  count 
Penn  heterodox  ? 

And  take  Cotton  Mather  in  place  of  George 
Fox? 

Make  our  preachers  war-chaplains  ?   quote 

Scripture  to  take 

The  hunted  slave  back,  for  Onesimus'  sake  ? 
Go  to  burning  church-candles,  and  chanting 

in  choir, 
And  on  the  old  meeting-house  stick  up  a 

spire  ? 


THE  QUAKER   ALUMNI 


223 


No  !  the  old  paths  we  '11  keep  until  better 

are  shown, 
Credit  good  where  we  find  it,  abroad  or  our 

own  ; 
And  while  "  Lo  here  "  and  "  Lo  there  "  the 

multitude  call, 
Be  true  to  ourselves,  and  do  justice  to  all. 

The  good  round  about  us  we  need  not  refuse, 
Nor  talk  of  our  Zion  as  if  we  were  Jews ; 
But  why  shirk  the  badge  which  our  fathers 

have  worn, 
Or  beg  the  world's  pardon  for  having  been 

born  ? 

We  need  not  pray  over  the  Pharisee's  prayer, 
Nor  claim  that  our  wisdom  is  Benjamin's 

share ; 

Truth  to  us  and  to  others  is  equal  and  one  : 
Shall  we  bottle  the  free  air,  or  hoard  up  the 

sun? 

Well  know  we  our  birthright  may  serve 

but  to  show 
How  the  meanest  of  weeds  in  the  richest 

soil  grow  ; 
But  we  need  not  disparage  the  good  which 

we  hold  ; 
Though  the  vessels  be  earthen,  the  treasure 

is  gold  ! 

Enough  and  too  much  of  the  sect  and  the 

name. 
What  matters  our  label,  so  truth  be  our 

aim  ? 
The  creed  may  be  wrong,  but  the  life  may 

be  true, 
And  hearts  beat  the  same  under  drab  coats 

or  blue. 

So  the  man  be  a  man,  let  him  worship,  at 

will, 

In  Jerusalem's  courts,  or  on  Gerizim's  hill. 
When  she  makes  up  her  jewels,  what  cares 

yon  good  town 
For  the  Baptist  of  Wayland,  the  Quaker  of 

Brown  ? 

And  this  green,  favored  island,  so  fresh  and 
sea-blown, 

When  she  counts  up  the  worthies  her  annals 
have  known, 

Never  waits  for  the  pitiful  gangers  of  sect 

To  measure  her  love,  and  mete  out  her  re 
spect. 


Three  shades  at  this  moment  seem  walking 

her  strand, 
Each   with  head    halo-crowned,  and  with 

palms  in  his  hand,  — 
Wise  Berkeley,  grave  Hopkins,  and,  smiling 

serene 
On  prelate  and  puritan,  Channing  is  seen. 

One  holy  name  bearing,  no  longer    they 

need 
Credentials   of  party,  and   pass-words   of 

creed: 
The  new  song  they  sing  hath  a  threefold 

accord, 
And  they  own  one  baptism,  one  faith,  and 

one  Lord  ! 

But  the  golden  sands  run  out  :   occasions 

like  these 
Glide  swift  into  shadow,  like  sails  on  the 


While  we  sport  with  the  mosses  and  pebbles 

ashore, 
They  lessen  and  fade,  and  we  see  them  no 

more. 

Forgive  me,  dear   friends,  if  my  vagrant 

thoughts  seem 
Like  a  school-boy's  who  idles  and  plays  with 

his  theme. 
Forgive  the  light  measure  whose  changes 

display 
The  sunshine  and  rain  of  our  brief  April 

day. 

There  are  moments  in  life  when  the  lip  and 

the  eye 
Try  the  question  of  whether  to  smile  or  to 

cry; 
And  scenes  and  reunions  that  prompt  like 

our  own 
The  tender  in  feeling,  the  playful  in  tone. 

I,  who  never  sat  down  with  the  boys  and  the 
girls 

At  the  feet  of  your  Slocums,  and  Cartlands, 
and  Earles,  — 

By  courtesy  only  permitted  to  lay 

On  your  festival's  altar  my  poor  gift,  to 
day, — 

I  would  joy  in  your   joy  :  let  me  have  a 

friend's  part 
In  the  warmth  of  your  welcome  of  hand 

and  of  heart,  — 


224 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


On  your  play-ground   of  boyhood  unbend 

the  brow's  care, 
And  shift  the  old  burdens   our   shoulders 

must  bear. 

Long  live  the  good  School  !  giving  out  year 

by  year 
Recruits  to  true  manhood  and  womanhood 

dear  : 
Brave  boys,  modest  maidens,  in  beauty  sent 

forth, 
The  living  epistles  and  proof  of  its  worth  ! 

In  and  out  let  the  young  life  as  steadily 

flow 
As  in  broad  Narragansett  the  tides  come 

and  go  ; 
And  its  sons  and  its  daughters  in  prairie 

and  town 
Remember  its  honor,  and  guard  its  renown. 

Not   vainly   the   gift   of   its    founder  was 

made  ; 
Not  prayerless  the  stones  of  its  corner  were 

laid  : 
The  blessing  of  Him  whom  in  secret  they 

sought 
Has  owned  the  good  work  which  the  fathers 

have  wrought. 

To  Him  be  the  glory  forever  !     We  bear 
To  the  Lord  of  the  Harvest  our  wheat  with 

the  tare. 
What  we  lack  in  our  work  may  He  find  in 

our  will, 
And  winnow  in  mercy  our  good  from  the 

ill ! 


OUR  RIVER 

FOR   A    SUMMER   FESTIVAL   AT    "THE 
LAURELS  "    ON   THE  MERRIMAC 

Jean  Pierre  Brissot,  the  famous  leader  of  the 
Girondist  party  in  the  French  Revolution,  when 
a  young  man  travelled  extensively  in  the  United 
States.  He  visited  the  valley  of  the  Merrimac, 
and  speaks  in  terms  of  admiration  of  the  view 
from  Mo  niton's  hill  opposite  Amesbury.  The 
"  Laurel  Party,"  so  called,  was  composed  of 
ladies  and  gentlemen  in  the  lower  valley  of  the 
Merrimac,  and  invited  friends  and  guests  in 
other  sections  of  the  country.  Its  thoroughly 
enjoyable  annual  festivals  were  held  in  the  early 
summer  on  the  pine-shaded,  laurel-blossomed 


slopes  of  the  Newbury  side  of  the  river  opposite 
Pleasant  Valley  in  Amesbury.  The  several 
poems  called  out  by  these  gatherings  are  here 
printed  in  sequence. 

ONCE  more  on  yonder  laurelled  height 

The  summer  flowers  have  budded  ; 
Once  more  with  summer's  golden  light 

The  vales  of  home  are  flooded  ; 
And  once  more,  by  the  grace  of  Him 

Of  every  good  the  Giver, 
We  sing  upon  its  wooded  rim 

The  praises  of  our  river  : 

Its  pines  above,  its  waves  below, 

The  west-wind  down  it  blowing, 
As  fair  as  when  the  young  Brissot 

Beheld  it  seaward  flowing,  — 
And  bore  its  memory  o'er  the  deep, 

To  soothe  the  martyr's  sadness, 
And  fresco,  in  his  troubled  sleep, 

His  prison-walls  with  gladness. 

We  know  the  world  is  rich  with  streams 

Renowned  in  song  and  story, 
Whose  music  murmurs  through  our  dream, 

Of  human  love  and  glory  : 
We  know  that  Arno's  banks  are  fair, 

And  Rhine  has  castled  shadows, 
And,  poet-tuned,  the  Doon  and  Ayr 

Go  singing  down  their  meadows. 

But  while,  uripictured  and  unsung 

By  painter  or  by  poet, 
Our  river  waits  the  tuneful  tongue 

And  cunning  hand  to  show  it,  — 
We  only  know  the  fond  skies  lean 

Above  it,  warm  with  blessing, 
And  the  sweet  soul  of  our  Undine 

Awakes  to  our  caressing. 

No  fickle  sun -god  holds  the  flocks 

That  graze  its  shores  in  keeping ; 
No  icy  kiss  of  Dian  mocks 

The  youth  beside  it  sleeping  : 
Our  Christian  river  loveth  most 

The  beautiful  and  human  ; 
The  heathen  streams  of  Naiads  boast, 

But  ours  of  man  and  woman. 

The  miner  in  his  cabin  hears 

The  ripple  we  are  hearing  ; 
It  whispers  soft  to  homesick  ears 

Around  the  settler's  clearing  : 
In  Sacramento's  vales  of  corn. 


REVISITED 


225 


Or  Santee's  bloom  of  cotton, 
Our  river  by  its  valley-born 
Was  never  yet  forgotten. 

The  drum  rolls  loud,  the  bugle  fills 

The  summer  air  with  clangor  ; 
The  war-storm  shakes  the  solid  hills 

Beneath  its  tread  of  anger  ; 
Young  eyes  that  last  year  smiled  in  ours 

Now  point  the  rifle's  barrel, 
And   hands  then   stained  with   fruits   and 
flowers 

Bear  redder  stains  of  quarrel. 

But  blue  skies  smile,  and  flowers  bloom  on, 

And  rivers  still  keep  flowing, 
The  dear  God  still  his  rain  and  sun 

On  good  and  ill  bestowing. 
His  pine-trees  whisper,  "  Trust  and  wait !  " 

His  flowers  are  prophesying 
That  all  we  dread  of  change  or  fate 

His  love  is  underlying. 

An  1  thou,  O  Mountain-born  !  —  no  more 

We  ask  the  wise  Allotter 
Than  for  the  firmness  of  thy  shore, 

The  calmness  of  thy  water, 
The  cheerful  lights  that  overlay 

Thy  rugged  slopes  with  beauty, 
To  match  our  spirits  to  our  day 

And  make  a  joy  of  duty. 


REVISITED 

Read  at  "  The  Laurels,"  on  the  Merriraac, 
6th  month,  1865. 

THE  roll  of  drums  and  the  bugle's  wailing 
Vex  the  air  of  our  vales  no  more  ; 

The  spear  is  beaten  to  hooks  of  pruning, 
The  share  is  the  sword  the  soldier  wore  ! 

Sing  soft,  sing  low,  our  lowland  river, 
Under  thy  banks  of  laurel  bloom  ; 

Softly  and  sweet,  as  the  hour  beseemeth, 
Sing  us  the  songs  of  peace  and  home. 

Let  all  the  tenderer  voices  of  nature 
Temper  the  triumph  and  chasten  mirth, 

Full  of  the  infinite  lore  and  pity 

For  fallen  martyr  and  darkened  hearth. 

But  to  Him  who  gives  us  beauty  for  ashes, 
And  the  oil  of  joy  for  mourning  long, 


Let  thy  hills  give  thanks,  and  all  thy  waters 
Break  into  jubilant  wave,1?  of  song  ! 

Bring  us  the  airs  of  hills  and  forests, 
The  sweet  aroma  of  birch  and  pine, 

Give  us  a  waft  of  the  north-wind  laden 
With  sweetbrier  odors  and  breath  of  kine 

Bring  us  the  purple  of  mountain  sunsets. 
Shadows  of  clouds  that  rake  the  hills, 

The  green  repose  of  thy  Plymouth  meadows 
The  gleam  and  ripple  of  Camp  ton  rills. 

Lead  us  away  in  shadow  and  sunshine, 
Slaves  of  fancy,  through  all  thy  miles, 

The  winding  ways  of  Pemigewasset, 
And  Winnipesaukee's  hundred  isles. 

Shatter  in  sunshine  over  thy  ledges, 
Laugh  in  thy  plunges  from  fall  to  fall  ; 

Play  with  thy  fringes  of  elms,  and  darken 
Under  the  shade  of  the  mountain  wall. 

The  cradle-song  of  thy  hillside  fountains 
Here  in  thy  glory  and  strength  repeat  ; 

Give  us  a  taste  of  thy  upland  music, 
Show  us  the  dance  of  thy  silver  feet. 

Into  thy  dutiful  life  of  uses 

Pour  the  music  and  weave  the  flowers  : 
With  the  song  of  birds  and  bloom  of  mead 
ows 

Lighten  and  gladden  thy  heart  and  ours, 

Sing  on  !  bring  down,  O  lowland  river, 

The  joy  of  the  hills  to  the  waiting  sea  ; 
The  wealth  of  the  vales,  the  pomp  of  moun 
tains, 

The  breath  of  the  woodlands,  bear  with 
thee. 

Here,  in  the  calm  of  thy  seaward  valley, 
Mirth  and  labor  shall  hold  their  truce  ; 

Dance  of  water  and  mill  of  grinding, 
Both  are  beauty  and  both  are  use. 

Type  of  the  Northland's  strength  and  glory, 
Pride  and  hope  of  our  home  and  race,  — 

Freedom  lending  to  rugged  labor 
Tints  of  beauty  and  lines  of  grace. 

Once  again,  O  beautiful  river, 

Hear  our  greetings  and  take  our  thanks ; 
Hither  we  come,  as  Eastern  pilgrims 

Throng  to  the  Jordan's  sacred  banks. 


226 


OCCASIONAL  POEMS 


For  though  by  the  Master's  feet  untrod 
den, 
Though  never  His  word  has  stilled  thy 

waves, 
Well  for  us  may  thy  shores  he  holy, 

With  Christian  altars  and  saintly  graves. 

And  well  may  we  own  thy  hint  and  token 
Of  fairer  valleys  and  streams  than  these, 

Where  the  rivers  of  God  are  full  of  water, 
And  full  of  sap  are  His  healing  trees  ! 


"THE   LAURELS" 
At  the  twentieth  and  last  anniversary. 

FROM  these  wild  rocks  I  look  to-day 
O'er  leagues  of  dancing  waves,  and  see 

The  far,  low  coast-line  stretch  away 
To  where  our  river  meets  the  sea. 

The  light  wind  blowing  off  the  land 
Is  burdened  with  old  voices  ;  through 

Shut  eyes  I  see  how  lip  and  hand 
The  greeting  of  old  days  renew. 

0  friends    whose   hearts  still  keep    their 

prime, 

Whose  bright  example  warms  and  cheers, 
Ye  teach  us  how  to  smile  at  Time, 
And  set  to  music  all  his  years  ! 

1  thank  you  for  sweet  summer  days, 
For  pleasant  memories  lingering  long, 

For  joyful  meetings,  fond  delays, 
And  ties  of  friendship  woven  strong. 

As  for  the  last  time,  side  by  side, 
You  tread  the  paths  familiar  grown, 

I  reach  across  the  severing  tide, 

And  blend  my  farewells  with  your  own. 

Make  room,  O  river  of  our  home  f 
For  other  feet  in  place  of  ours, 

And  in  the  summers  yet  to  come, 

Make  glad  another  Feast  of  Flowers  ! 

Hold  in  thy  mirror,  calm  and  deep, 
The  pleasant  pictures  thou  hast  seen  ; 

Forget  thy  lovers  not,  but  keep 

Our  memory  like  thy  laurels  green. 


JUNE  ON   THE    MERRIMAC 

O  DWELLERS  in  the  stately  towns, 

What  come  ye  out  to  see  ? 
This  common  earth,  this  common  sky, 

This  water  flowing  free  ? 

As  gayly  as  these  kalmia  flowers 
Your  door-yard  blossoms  spring  ; 

As  sweetly  as  these  wild-wood  birds 
Your  caged  minstrels  sing. 

You  find  but  common  bloorn  and  green 

The  rippling  river's  rune, 
The  beauty  which  is  everywhere 

Beneath  the  skies  of  June  ; 

The    Hawkswood    oaks,    the    storm -torn 
plumes 

Of  old  pine-forest  kings, 
Beneath  whose  century-woven  shade 

Deer  Island's  mistress  sings. 

And  here  are  pictured  Artichoke, 

And  Curson's  bowery  mill  ; 
And  Pleasant  Valley  smiles  between 

The  river  and  the  hill. 

You  know  full  well  these  banks  of  bloom. 

The  upland's  wavy  line, 
And  how  the  sunshine  tips  with  fire 

The  needles  of  the  pine. 

Yet,  like  some  old  remembered  psalm, 

Or  sweet,  familiar  face, 
Not  less  because  of  commonness 

You  love  the  day  and  place. 

And  not  in  vain  in  this  soft  air 
Shall  hard-strung  nerves  relax, 

Not  all  in  vain  the  o'erworn  brain 
Forego  its  daily  tax. 

The  lust  of  power,  the  greed  of  gain 

Have  all  the  year  their  own  ; 
The  haunting  demons  well  may  let 

Our  one  bright  day  alone. 

Unheeded  let  the  newsboy  call, 

Aside  the  ledger  lay  : 
The  world  will  keep  its  treadmill  step 

Though  we  fall  out  to-day. 


HYMN 


227 


The  truants  of  life's  weary  school, 
Without  excuse  from  thrift 

We  change  for  once  the  gains  of  toil 
For  God's  unpurchased  gift. 

From  ceiled  rooms,  from  silent  books, 
From  crowded  car  and  town, 

Dear  Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  lap 
We  lay  our  tired  heads  down. 

Cool,  summer  wind,  our  heated  brows  ; 

Blue  river,  through  the  green 
Of  clustering  pines,  refresh  the  eyes 

Which  all  too  much  have  seen. 

For  us  these  pleasant  woodland  ways 
Are  thronged  with  memories  old, 

Have  felt  the  grasp  of  friendly  hands 
And  heard  love's  story  told. 

A  sacred  presence  overbroods 
The  earth  whereon  we  meet ; 

These  winding  forest-paths  are  trod 
By  more  than  mortal  feet. 

Old  friends  called  from  us  by  the  voice 
Which  they  alone  could  hear, 

From  mystery  to  mystery, 
From  life  to  life,  draw  near. 

More  closely  for  the  sake  of  them 
Each  other's  hands  we  press  ; 

Our  voices  take  from  them  a  tone 
Of  deeper  tenderness. 

Our  joy  is  theirs,  their  trust  is  ours, 

Alike  below,  above, 
Or  here  or  there,  about  us  fold 

The  arms  of  one  great  love  ! 

We  ask  to-day  no  countersign, 

No  party  names  we  own  ; 
Unlabelled,  individual, 

We  bring  ourselves  alone. 

What  cares  the  unconventioned  wood 
For  pass- words  of  the  town  ? 

The  sound  of  fashion's  shibboleth 
The  laughing  waters  drown. 

Here  cant  forgets  his  dreary  tone, 

And  care  his  face  forlorn ; 
The  liberal  air  and  sunshine  laugh 

The  bigot's  zeal  to  scorn. 


From  manhood's  weary  shoulder  falls 

His  load  of  selfish  cares  ; 
And  woman  takes  her  rights  as  flowers 

And  brooks  and  birds  take  theirs. 

The  license  of  the  happy  woods, 
The  brook's  release  are  ours  ; 

The  freedom  of  the  unshamed  wind 
Among  the  glad-eyed  flowers. 

Yet  here  no  evil  thought  finds  place, 

Nor  foot  profane  comes  in  ; 
Our  grove,  like  that  of  Samothrace, 

Is  set  apart  from  sin. 

We  walk  on  holy  ground  ;  above 

A  sky  more  holy  smiles  ; 
The  chant  of  the  beatitudes 

Swells  down  these  leafy  aisles. 

Thanks  to  the  gracious  Providence 
That  brings  us  here  once  more  ; 

For  memories  of  the  good  behind 
And  hopes  of  good  before  ! 

And  if,  unknown  to  us,  sweet  days 

Of  June  like  this  must  come, 
Unseen  of  us  these  laurels  clothe 

The  river-banks  with  bloom  ; 

And  these  green  paths  must  soon  be  trod 

By  other  feet  than  ours, 
Full  long  may  annual  pilgrims  come 

To  keep  the  Feast  of  Flowers  ; 

The  matron  be  a  girl  once  more, 

The  bearded  man  a  boy, 
And  we,  in  heaven's  eternal  June, 

Be  glad  for  earthly  joy  ! 

HYMN 

FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  THOMAS    STARR 
KING'S  HOUSE  OF  WORSHIP,  1864 

The  poetic  and  patriotic  preacher,  who  had 
won  fame  in  the  East,  went  to  California  in 
18(50  and  became  a  power  on  the  Pacific  coast. 
It  was  not  long  after  the  opening-  of  the  house 
of  worship  built  for  him  that  he  died. 

AMIDST  these  glorious  works  of  Thine, 
The  solemn  minarets  of  the  pine, 
And  awful  Shasta's  icy  shrine,  — 


228 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


Where  swell  Thy  hymns  from  wave   and 

gale, 

And  organ-thunders  never  fail, 
Behind  the  cataract's  silver  veil,  — 

Our  puny  walls  to  Thee  we  raise, 

Our  poor  reed-music  sounds  Thy  praise  : 

Forgive,  O  Lord,  our  childish  ways  ! 

For,  kneeling  on  these  altar-stairs, 
We  urge  Thee  not  with  selfish  prayers, 
Nor  murmur  at  our  daily  cares. 

Before  Thee,  in  an  evil  day, 

Our  country's  bleeding  heart  we  lay, 

And  dare  not  ask  Thy  hand  to  stay  ; 

But,  through  the  war-cloud,  pray  to  Thee 
For  union,  but  a  union  free, 
With  peace  that  comes  of  purity  ! 

That  Thou  wilt  bare  Thy  arm  to  save 
And,  smiting  through  this  Red  Sea  wave, 
Make  broad  a  pathway  for  the  slave  ! 

For  us,  confessing  all  our  need, 

We  trust  nor  rite  nor  word  nor  deed, 

Nor  yet  the  broken  staff  of  creed. 

Assured  alone  that  Thou  art  good 
To  each,  as  to  the  multitude, 
Eternal  Love  and  Fatherhood,  — 

Weak,  sinful,  blind,  to  Thee  we  kneel, 
Stretch    dumbly    forth     our    hands,    and 

feel 
Our  weakness  is  our  strong  appeal. 

So,  by  these  Western  gates  of  Even 
We  wait  to  see  with  Thy  forgiven 
The  opening  Golden  Gate  of  Heaven  ! 

Suffice  it  now.     In  time  to  be 
Shall  holier  altars  rise  to  Thee,  — 
Thy  Church  our  broad  humanity  ! 

White    flowers    of    love    its    walls    shall 

climb, 

Soft  bells  of  peace  shall  ring  its  chime, 
Its  days  shall  all  be  holy  time. 

A  sweeter  song  shall  then  be  heard,  — 
The  music  of  the  world's  accord 
Corfessing  Christ,  the  Inward  Word  ! 


That  song  shall  swell  from  shore  to  shore, 
One  hope,  one  faith,  one  love,  restore 
The  seamless  robe  that  Jesus  wore. 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  HOUSE  OF  WORSHIP  AT  GEORGE 
TOWN,  ERECTED  IX  MEMORY  OF  A 
MOTHER 

The  giver  of  the  house  was  the  late  George 
Peabody,  of  London. 

THOU  dwellest  not,  O  Lord  of  all  ! 

In  temples  which  thy  children  raise  ; 
Our  work  to  Thine  is  mean  and  small, 

And  brief  to  Thy  eternal  days. 

Forgive  the  weakness  and  the  pride, 
If  marred  thereby  our  gift  may  be, 

For  love,  at  least,  has  sanctified 
The  altar  that  we  rear  to  thee. 

The  heart  and  not  the  hand  has  wrought 
From  sunken  base  to  towei  above 

The  image  of  a  tender  thought, 
The  memory  of  a  deathless  love  ! 

And  though  should  never  sound  of  speech 

Or  organ  echo  from  its  wall, 
Its  stones  would  pious  lessons  teach, 

Its  shade  in  benedictions  fall. 

Here  should  the  dove  of  peace  be  found, 
And  blessings  and  not  curses  given  ; 

Nor  strife  profane,  nor  hatred  wound 
The  mingled  loves  of  earth  and  heaven. 

Thou,  who  didst  soothe  with  dying  breath 
The  dear  one  watching  by  Thy  cross, 

Forgetful  of  the  pains  of  death 
In  sorrow  for  her  mighty  loss, 

In  memory  of  that  tender  claim, 
O  Mother-born,  the  offering  take, 

And  make  it  worthy  of  Thy  name, 
And  bless  it  for  a  mother's  sake  ! 


A    SPIRITUAL    MANIFESTATION 

Read  at  the  President's  Levee,  Brown  Uni 
vereity,  29th  6th  month,  1870. 


A  SPIRITUAL   MANIFESTATION 


229 


TO-DAY  the  plant  by  Williams  set 

Its  summer  bloom  discloses  ; 
The  wilding  sweetbrier  of  his  prayers 

Is  crowned  with  cultured  roses. 

Once  more  the  Island  State  repeats 
The  lesson  that  he  taught  her, 

And  binds  his  pearl  of  charity 

Upon  her  brown-locked  daughter. 

Is  't  fancy  that  he  watches  still 

His  Providence  plantations  ? 
That  still  the  careful  Founder  takes 

A  part  on  these  occasions  ? 

Methinks  I  see  that  reverend  form, 
Which  all  of  us  so  well  know  : 

He  rises  up  to  speak  ;  he  jogs 
The  presidential  elbow. 

"  Good  friends,"  he  says,  "  you  reap  a  field 

I  sowed  in  self-denial, 
For  toleration  had  its  griefs 

And  charity  its  trial. 

"  Great  grace,  as  saith  Sir  Thomas  More, 

To  him  must  needs  be  given 
Who  heareth  heresy  and  leaves 

The  heretic  to  Heaven  ! 

"  I  hear  again  the  snuffled  tones, 

I  see  in  dreary  vision 
Dyspeptic  dreamers,  spiritual  bores, 

And  prophets  with  a  mission. 

"  Each  zealot  thrust  before  my  eyes 

His  Scripture-garbled  label  ; 
All  creeds  were  shouted  in  my  ears 

As  with  the  tongues  of  Babel. 

"  Scourged  at  one  cart-tail,  each  denied 

The  hope  of  every  other  ; 
Each  martyr  shook  his  branded  fist 

At  the  conscience  of  his  brother  1 

K  How  cleft  the  dreary  drone  of  man 

The  shriller  pipe  of  woman, 
As  Gorton  led  his  saints  elect, 

Who  held  all  things  in  common  ! 

"Their    gay   robes   trailed   in    ditch    and 
swamp, 

And  torn  by  thorn  and  thicket, 
The  dancing-girls  of  Merry  Mount 

Came  dragging  to  my  wicket. 


"  Shrill  Anabaptists,  shorn  of  ears  ; 

Gray  witch-wives,  hobbling  slowly  ; 
And  Antinomians,  free  of  law, 

Whose  very  sins  were  holy. 

"  Hoarse  ranters,  crazed   Fifth   Monarch 
ists 

Of  stripes  and  bondage  braggarts, 
Pale     Churchmen,     with     singed     rubrics 

snatched 
From  Puritanic  fagots. 

"  And  last,  not  least,  the  Quakers  came, 
With  tongues  still  sore  from  burning, 

The  Bay  State's  dust  from  off  their  feet 
Before  my  threshold  spurning  ; 

"  A  motley  host,  the  Lord's  debris, 
Faith's  odds  and  ends  together  ; 

Well   might   I   shrink   from    guests   witt 

lungs 
Tough  as  their  breeches  leather  : 

"  If,  when  the  hangman  at  their  heels 
Came,  rope  in  hand  to  catch  them, 

I  took  the  hunted  outcasts  in, 
I  never  sent  to  fetch  them. 

"  I  fed,  but  spared  them  not  a  whit  ; 

I  gave  to  all  who  walked  in, 
Not  clams  and  succotash  alone, 

But  stronger  meat  of  doctrine. 

"  I  proved  the  prophets  false,  I  pricked 

The  bubble  of  perfection, 
And  clapped  upon  their  inner  light 

The  snuffers  of  election. 

"  And  looking  backward  on  my  times, 

This  credit  I  am  taking  ; 
I  kept  each  sectary's  dish  apart, 

No  spiritual  chowder  making. 

"  Where  now  the  blending  signs  of  sect 

Would  puzzle  their  assorter, 
The  dry-shod  Quaker  kept  the  land, 

The  Baptist  held  the  water. 

"  A  common  coat  now  serves  for  both, 

The  hat 's  no  more  a  fixture  ; 
And  which  was  wet  and  which  was  dry, 

Who  knows  in  such  a  mixture  ? 

"  Well  !     He  who  fashioned  Peter's  dream 
To  bless  them  all  is  able  ; 


230 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


And  bird  and  beast  and  creeping  thing 
Make  clean  upon  His  table  ! 

"  I  walked  by  my  own  light  ;  but  when 

The  ways  of  faith  divided, 
Was  I  to  force  unwilling  feet 

To  tread  the  path  that  I  did  ? 

"  I  touched  the  garment-hem  of  truth, 
Yet  saw  not  all  its  splendor  ; 

I  knew  enough  of  doubt  to  feel 
For  every  conscience  tender. 

"  God  left  men  free  of  choice,  as  when 
His  Eden-trees  were  planted  ; 

Because  they  chose  amiss,  should  I 
Deny  the  gift  He  granted  ? 

"  So,  with  a  common  sense  of  need, 
Our  common  weakness  feeling, 

I  left  them  with  myself  to  God 
And  His  all-gracious  dealing  ! 

"  I  kept  His  plan  whose  rain  and  sun 
To  tare  and  wheat  are  given  ; 

And  if  the  ways  to  hell  were  free, 
I  left  them  free  to  heaven  !  " 

Take  heart  with  us,  O  man  of  old, 
Soul-freedom's  brave  confessor, 

So  love  of  God  and  man  wax  strong, 
Let  sect  and  creed  be  lesser. 

The  jarring  discords  of  thy  day 
In  ours  one  hymn  are  swelling  ; 

The  wandering  feet,  the  severed  paths, 
All  seek  our  Father's  dwelling. 

And  slowly  learns  the  world  the  truth 
That  makes  us  all  thy  debtor,  — 

That  holy  life  is  more  than  rite, 
And  spirit  more  than  letter  ; 

That  they  who  differ  pole-wide  serve 
Perchance  the  common  Master, 

And  other  sheep  He  hath  than  they 
Who  graze  one  narrow  pasture  ! 

For  truth's  worst  foe  is  he  who  claims 

To  act  as  God's  avenger, 
And  deems,  beyond  his  sentry-beat, 

The  crystal  walls  in  danger  ! 

Who  sets  for  heresy  his  traps 
Of  verbal  quirk  and  quibble, 


And  weeds  the  garden  of  the  Lord 
With  Satan's  borrowed  dibble. 

To-day  our  hearts  like  organ  keys 
One  Master's  touch  are  feeling  ; 

The  branches  of  a  common  Vine 
Have  only  leaves  of  healing. 

Co-workers,  yet  from  varied  fields, 
We  share  this  restful  nooning  ; 

The  Quaker  with  the  Baptist  here 
Believes  in  close  communing. 

Forgive,  dear  saint,  the  playful  tone, 
Too  light  for  thy  deserving  ; 

Thanks  for  thy  generous  faith  in  man, 
Thy  trust  in  God  unswerving. 

Still  echo  in  the  hearts  of  men 
The  words  that  thou  hast  spoken 

No  forge  of  hell  can  weld  again 
The  fetters  thou  hast  broken. 

The  pilgrim  needs  a  pass  no  more 

From  Roman  or  Genevan  ; 
Thought-free,  no  ghostly  tollman  keeps 

Henceforth  the  road  to  Heaven  ! 


CHICAGO 

The  great  fire  at  Chicago  was  on  8-10  Octo 
ber,  1871. 

MEN  said  at  vespers  :  "  All  is  well !  " 
In  one  wild  night  the  city  fell  ; 
Fell  shrines  of  prayer  and  marts  of  gain 
Before  the  fiery  hurricane. 

On  threescore  spires  had  sunset  shone, 
Where  ghastly  sunrise  looked  on  none. 
Men  clasped  each  other's  hands,  and  said  : 
"  The  City  of  the  West  is  dead  !  " 

Brave  hearts  who  fought,  in  slow  retreat, 
The  fiends  of  fire  from  street  to  street, 
Turned,  powerless,  to  the  blinding  glare, 
The  dumb  defiance  of  despair. 

A  sudden  impulse  thrilled  each  wire 
That  signalled  round  that  sea  of  fire  ; 
Swift  words  of  cheer,  warm  heart  -  throbs 

came  ; 
In  tears  of  pity  died  the  flame  ! 


THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING   OF   LONGWOOD 


231 


From  East,   from  West,  from  South  and 

North, 

The  messages  of  hope  shot  forth, 
And,  underneath  the  severing  wave, 
The  world,  full-handed,  reached  to  save. 

Fair  seemed  the  old  ;  but  fairer  still 
The  new,  the  dreary  void  shall  fill 
With  dearer  homes  than  those  o'erthrown, 
For  love  shall  lay  each  corner-stone. 

Rise,  stricken  city  !  from  thee  throw 
The  ashen  sackcloth  of  thy  woe  ; 
And  build,  as  to  Amphion's  strain, 
To  songs  of  cheer  thy  walls  again  ! 

How  shrivelled  in  thy  hot  distress 
The  primal  sin  of  selfishness  ! 
How  instant  rose,  to  take  thy  part, 
The  angel  in  the  human  heart  ! 

Ah  !  not  in  vain  the  flames  that  tossed 
Above  thy  dreadful  holocaust  ; 
The  Christ  again  has  preached  through  thee 
The  Gospel  of  Humanity  ! 

Then  lift  once  more  thy  towers  on  high, 
And  fret  with  spires  the  western  sky, 
To  tell  that  God  is  yet  with  us, 
And  love  is  still  miraculous  ! 


KINSMAN 

Died   at   the   Island   of   Panay   (Philippine 
group),  aged  nineteen  years. 


WHERE  ceaseless  Spring  her  garland  twines, 
As  sweetly  shall  the  loved  one  rest, 

As  if  beneath  the  whispering 
And  maple  shadows  of  the 


rest, 
ines 


Ye  mourn,  O  hearts  of  home  !  for  him, 
But,  haply,  mourn  ye  not  alone  ; 

For  him  shall  far-off  eyes  be  dim, 
And  pity  speak  in  tongues  unknown. 

There  needs  no  graven  line  to  give 
The  story  of  his  blameless  youth  ; 

All  hearts  shall  throb  intuitive, 

And  nature  guess  the  simple  truth. 

The  very  meaning  of  his  name 
Shall  many  a  tender  tribute  win  ; 

The  stranger  own  his  sacred  claim, 
And  all  the  world  shall  be  his  kin. 


And  there,  as  here,  on  main  and  isle, 
The  dews  of  holy  peace  shall  fall, 

The  same  sweet  heavens  above  him  smile 
And  God's  dear  love  be  over  all ! 


THE   GOLDEN   WEDDING   OF 
LONGWOOD 


Longwood,  not  far  from  Bayard  Taylor's 
birthplace  in  Kennett  ISquare,  Pennsylvania, 
was  the  home  of  my  esteemed  friends  John  and 
Hannah  Cox,  whose  golden  wedding  was  cele 
brated  in  1874. 

WITH   fifty   years   between  you  and  your 

well-kept  wedding  vow, 
The  Golden  Age,  old  friends  of  mine,  is  not 

a  fable  now. 

And,  sweet  as  has  life's  vintage  been  througk 

all  your  pleasant  past, 
Still,  as  at  Cana's  marriage-feast,  the  best 

wine  is  the  last  ! 

Again  before  me,  with  your  names,  fair 
Chester's  landscape  comes, 

Its  meadows,  woods,  and  ample  barns,  and 
quaint,  stone-builded  homes. 

The  smooth-shorn  vales,  the  wheaten  slopes, 
the  boscage  green  and  soft, 

Of  which  their  poet  sings  so  well  from 
towered  Cedarcroft. 

And  lo  !  from  all  the  country  -  side  come 

neighbors,  kith  and  kin  ; 
From  city,    hamlet,    farm  -  house  old,    the 

wedding  guests  come  in. 

And  they  who,  without  scrip  or  purse,  mob- 
hunted,  travel-worn, 

In  Freedom's  age  of  martyrs  came,  as 
victors  now  return. 

Older  and  slower,  yet  the  same,  files  in  the 

long  array, 
And   hearts  are    light    and  eyes  are  glad, 

though  heads  are  badger-gray. 

The  fire-tried  men  of  Thirty-eight  who  saw 

with  me  the  fall, 
Midst  roaring  flames  and  shouting  mob,  of 

Pennsylvania  Hall  ; 


232' 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


And   they    of   Lancaster    who   turned   the 

cheeks  of  tyrants  pale, 
Singing  of  freedom  through  the  grates  of 

Moyamensing  jail ! 


com- 


moyameiisiug  jail  : 

And  haply  with  them,  all  unseen,  old 

rades,  gone  before, 
Pass>  silently  as  shadows  pass,  within  your 

open  door,  — 

The  eagle  face  of  Lindley  Coates,  brave 
Garrett's  daring  zeal, 

The  Christian  grace  of  Peimock,  the  stead 
fast  heart  of  Neal. 

Ah  me  !   beyond  all  power  to  name,   the 

worthies  tried  and  true, 
Grave  men,  fair  women,  youth  and  maid, 

pass  by  in  hushed  review. 

Of  varying  faiths,  a  common  cause  fused 

all  their  hearts  in  one. 
God  give  them  now,  whate'er  their  names, 

the  peace  of  duty  done  ! 

How  gladly  would  I  tread  again  the  old- 
remembered  places, 

Sit  down  beside  your  hearth  once  more  and 
look  in  the  dear  old  faces  ! 

fVnd  thank  you  for  the  lessons  your  fifty 

years  are  teaching, 
For  honest  lives    that    louder  speak   than 

half  our  noisy  preaching  ; 

For  your  steady  faith  and  courage  in  that 

dark  and  evil  time, 
When  the  Golden  Rule  was  treason,  and  to 

feed  the  hungry  crime  ; 

For  the  poor  slave's  house  of  refuge  when 
the  hounds  were  on  his  track, 

And  saint  and  sinner,  church  and  state, 
joined  hands  to  send  him  back. 

Blessings  upon  you  !  —  What  you  did  for 

each  sad,  suffering  one, 
So    homeless,  faint,   and  naked,  unto   our 

Lord  was  done  ! 

Fair  fall  on  Kennett's  pleasant  vales  and 

Longwood's  bowery  ways 
Th*  mellow  sunset  of  your  lives,  friends  of 

my  early  days. 


May  many  more  of  quiet  years  be  added  t« 

your  sum, 
And,  late  at  last,   in   tenderest   love,   the 

beckoning  angel  come. 

Dear  hearts  are  here,  dear  hearts  are  there, 

alike  below,  above  ; 
Our  friends  are  now  in  either  world,  and 

love  is  sure  of  love. 


HYMN 

FOR  THE  OPENING  OF  PLYMOUTH  CHURCH, 
ST.  PAUL,  MINNESOTA 

ALL  things  are  Thine  :  no  gift  have  we, 
Lord  of  all  gifts,  to  offer  Thee  ; 
And  hence  with  grateful  hearts  to-day, 
Thy  own  before  Thy  feet  we  lay. 

Thy  will  was  in  the  builders'  thought ; 
Thy  hand  unseen  amidst  us  wrought  ; 
Through  mortal  motive,  scheme  and  plan, 
Thy  wise  eternal  purpose  ran. 

No  lack  Thy  perfect  fulness  knew  ; 
For  human  needs  and  longings  grew 
This  house  of  prayer,  this  home  of  rest, 
In  the  fair  garden  of  the  West. 

In  weakness  and  in  want  we  call 

On  Thee  for  whom  the  heavens  are  small 

Thy  glory  is  Thy  children's  good, 

Thy  joy  Thy  tender  Fatherhood. 

O  Father  !  deign  these  walls  to  bless, 
Fill  with  Thy  love  their  emptiness, 
And  let  their  door  a  gateway  be 
To  lead  us  from  ourselves  to  Thee  ! 


LEXINGTON 

1775 

No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they, 
No  battle-joy  was  theirs,  who  set 
Against  the  alien  bayonet 

Their  homespun  breasts  in  that  old  day. 

Their  feet  had  trodden  peaceful  ways  ; 

They  loved   not  strife,  they   dreaded 
pain  ; 


I  WAS  A  STRANGER  AND  YE   TOOK   ME  IN 


23* 


They  saw  not,  what  to  us  is  plain, 
That  God   would   make   mail's    wrath  His 
praise. 

No  seers  were  they,  but  simple  men  ; 
Its  vast  results  the  future  hid  • 
The  meaning  of  the  work  they  did 

Was  strange  and  dark  and  doubtful  then. 

Swift  as  their  summons  came  they  left 

The     plough     mid  -  furrow     standing 

still, 
The   half  -  ground   corn   grist   in    the 

mill 
The  spade  in  earth,  the  axe  in  cleft. 

They  went  where  duty  seemed  to  call, 
They  scarcely  asked  the  reason  why  ; 
They  only  knew  they  could  but  die, 

A.nd  death  was  not  the  worst  of  all ! 

Of  man  for  man  the  sacrifice, 

All    that    was    theirs    to    give,   they 

gave. 
The  flowers  that  blossomed  from  their 

grave 
Have  sown  themselves  beneath  all  skies. 

Their  death-shot  shook  the  feudal  tower, 
And     shattered     slavery's     chain     as 

well  ; 
On  the  sky's  dome,  as  on  a  bell, 

Its  echo  struck  the  world's  great  hour. 

That  fateful  echo  is  not  dumb  : 

The  nations  listening  to  its  sound 
Wait,  from  a  century's  vantage-ground, 

The  holier  triumphs  yet  to  come,  — 

The  bridal  time  of  Law  and  Love, 

The  gladness  of  the  world's  release, 
When,  war-sick,  at  the  feet  of  Peace 

The  hawk  shall  nestle  with  the  dove  !  — 

The  golden  age  of  brotherhood 
Unknown  to  other  rivalries 
Than  of  the  mild  humanities, 

And  gracious  interchange  of  good, 

When  closer  strand  shall  lean  to  strand, 
Till  meet,  beneath  saluting  flags, 
The  eagle  of  our  mountain-crags, 

The  lion  of  our  Motherland  1 


THE    LIBRARY 

Sung-  at  the  opening  of  the  Haverhill  Library, 
November  11,  1875. 

"  LET  there  be  light  !  "     God  spake  of  old, 
And  over  chaos  dark  and  cold, 
And  through  the  dead  and  formless  frame 
Of  nature,  life  and  order  came. 

Faint  was  the  light  at  first  that  shone 
On  giant  fern  and  mastodon, 
On  half-formed  plant  and  beast  of  prey, 
And  man  as  rude  and  wild  as  they. 

Age  after  age,  like  waves,  o'erran 
The  earth,  uplifting  brute  and  man  ; 
And  mind,  at  length,  in  symbols  dark 
Its  meanings  traced  on  stone  and  bark. 

On  leaf  of  palm,  on  sedge-wrought  roll ; 
On  plastic  clay  and  leathern  scroll, 
Man  wrote  his  thoughts  ;  the  ages  passed, 
And  lo  !  the  Press  was  found  at  last  ! 

Then  dead  souls  woke ;  the  thoughts  of  men 
Whose  bones  were  dust  revived  again  ; 
The  cloister's  silence  found  a  tongue, 
Old  prophets  spake,  old  poets  sung. 

And  here,  to-day,  the  dead  look  down, 
The  kings  of  mind  again  we  crown  ; 
We  hear  the  voices  lost  so  long, 
The  sage's  word,  the  sibyl's  song. 

Here  Greek  and  Roman  find  themselves 
Alive  along  these  crowded  shelves  ; 
And  Shakespeare  treads  again  his  stage, 
And  Chaucer  paints  anew  his  age. 

As  if  some  Pantheon's  maibles  broke 
Their  stony  trance,  and  lived  and  spoke, 
Life  thrills  along  the  alcoved  hall, 
The  lords  of  thought  await  our  call  ! 


I  WAS     A   STRANGER   AND    YE 
TOOK  ME    IN" 

An  incident  in  St.  Augustine,  Florida. 


skies  that  winter  never  knew 
The  air  was  full  of  light  and  balm, 


234 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


And  warm  and  soft  the  Gulf  wind  blew 
Through  orange    bloom    and  groves    of 
palm. 

A  stranger  from  the  frozen  North, 

Who  sought  the  fount  of  health  in  vain, 

Sank  homeless  on  the  alien  earth, 

And  breathed  the  languid  air  with  pain. 

God's  angel  came  !     The  tender  shade 
Of  pity  made  her  blue  eye  dim; 

Against  her  woman's  breast  she  laid 
The  drooping,  fainting  head  of  him. 

She  bore  him  to  a  pleasant  room, 

Flower-sweet  and  cool  with  salt  sea  air, 

And  watched  beside  his  bed,  for  whom 
His  far-off  sisters  might  not  care. 

She  fanned  his  feverish  brow  and  smoothed 
Its  lines  of  pain  with  tenderest  touch. 

With  holy  hymn  and  prayer  she  soothed 
The  trembling  soul  that  feared  so  much. 

Through  her  the  peace  that  passeth  sight 
Came  to  him,  as  he  lapsed  away 

As  one  whose  troubled  dreams  of  night 
Slide  slowly  into  tranquil  day. 

The  sweetness  of  the  Land  of  Flowers 
Upon  his  lonely  grave  she  laid  : 

The  jasmine  dropped  its  golden  showers, 
The  orange  lent  its  bloom  and  shade. 

And  something  whispered  in  her  thought, 
More  sweet  than  mortal  voices  be  : 

"  The  service  thou  for  him  hast  wrought 
O  daughter  !  hath  been  done  for  me." 


CENTENNIAL   HYMN 

Written  for  the  opening  of  the  International 
Exhibition,  Philadelphia,  May  10,  1876.  The 
music  for  the  hymn  was  written  by  John  K. 
Paine,  and  may  be  found  in  The  Atlantic 
Monthly  for  June,  1876. 


OUR  fathers'  God  !  from  out  whose  hand 
The  centuries  fall  like  grains  of  sand, 
We  meet  to-day,  united,  free, 
And  loyal  to  our  land  and  Thee, 
To  thank  Thee  for  the  era  done, 
And  trust  Thee  for  the  opening;  one. 


II 


Here,  where  of  old,  by  Thy  design, 
The  fathers  spake  that  word  of  Thine 
Whose  echo  is  the  glad  refrain 
Of  rended  bolt  and  falling  chain, 
To  grace  our  festal  time,  from  all 
The  zones  of  earth  our  guests  we  call. 


in 


Be  with  us  while  the  New  World  greets 
The  Old  World  thronging  all  its  streets, 
Unveiling  all  the  triumphs  won 
By  art  or  toil  beneath  the  sun  ; 
And  unto  common  good  ordain 
This  rivalship  of  hand  and  brain. 


IV 


Thou,  who  hast  here  in  concord  furled 
The  war  flags  of  a  gathered  world, 
Beneath  our  Western  skies  fulfil 
The  Orient's  mission  of  good-will, 
And,  freighted  with  love's  Golden  Fleece, 
Send  back  its  Argonauts  of  peace. 


For  art  and  labor  met  in  truce, 
For  beauty  made  the  bride  of  use, 
We  thank  Thee  ;  but,  withal,  we  crave 
The  austere  virtues  strong  to  save, 
The  honor  proof  to  place  or  gold, 
The  manhood  never  bought  nor  sold  ! 


VI 


Oh  make  Thou  us,  through  centuries  long, 
In  peace  secure,  in  justice  strong  ; 
Around  our  gift  of  freedom  draw 
The  safeguards  of  thy  righteous  law  : 
And,  cast  in  some  diviner  mould, 
Let  the  new  cycle  shame  the  old  ! 


AT    SCHOOL-CLOSE 

BOWDOIN   STREET,  BOSTON,   1877 

THE  end  has  come,  as  come  it  must 

To    all    things  ;    in    these   sweet    June 
days 

The  teacher  and  the  scholar  trust 
Their  parting  feet  to  separate  ways. 


HYMN   OF   THE   CHILDREN 


They  part  :  but  in  the  years  to  be 

Shall  pleasant  memories  cling  to  each, 

As  shells  bear  inland  from  the  sea 
The  murmur  of  the  rhythmic  beach. 

One  knew  the  joy  the  sculptor  knows 
When,  plastic  to  his  lightest  touch, 

His  clay-wrought  model  slowly  grows 
To  that  fine  grace  desired  so  much. 

So  daily  grew  before  her  eyes 

The  living  shapes  whereon  she  wrought, 
Strong,  tender,  innocently  wise, 

The  child's  heart  with  the  woman's 
thought. 

And  one  shall  never  quite  forget 

The  voice  that  called  from  dream  and 


The  firm  but  kindly  hand  that  set 

Her  feet  in  learning's  pleasant  way,  — 

The  joy  of  Undine  soul-possessed, 

The    wakening    sense,    the    strange    de 
light 

That  swelled  the  fabled  statue's  breast 
And  filled  its  clouded  eyes  with  sight  ! 

O  Youth  and  Beauty,  loved  of  all  ! 

Ye  pass  from  girlhood's  gate  of  dreams  ; 
In  broader  ways  your  footsteps  fall, 

Ye  test  the  truth  of  all  that  seems. 

Her  little  realm  the  teacher  leaves, 
She  breaks  her  wand  of  power  apart, 

While,  for  your  love  and  trust,  she  gives 
The  warm  thanks  of  a  grateful  heart. 

Hers  is  the  sober  summer  noon 

Contrasted  with  your  morn  of  spring, 

The  waning  with  the  waxing  moon, 
The  folded  with  the  outspread  wing. 

Across  the  distance  of  the  years 

She  sends  her  God-speed  back  to  you  ; 

She  has  no  thought  of  doubts  or  fears  : 
Be  but  yourselves,  be  pure,  be  true, 

A.nd  prompt  in  duty  ;  heed  the  deep, 
Low  voice  of   conscience  ;    through  the 
ill 

And  discord  round  about  you,  keep 
Your  faith  in  human  nature  still. 


235 


Be  gentle  :  unto  griefs  and  needs, 

Be  pitiful  as  woman  should, 
And,  spite  of  all  the  lies  of  creeds, 

Hold  fast  the  truth  that  God  is  good. 

Give  and  receive  ;  go  forth  and  bless 

The    world    that   needs   the    hand    and 
heart 

Of  Martha's  helpful  carefulness 
No  less  than  Mary's  better  part. 

So  shall  the  stream  of  time  flow  by 
And  leave  each  year  a  richer  good, 

And  matron  loveliness  outvie 

The  nameless  charm  of  maidenhood. 

And,    when    the    world    shall    link    your 

names 

With  gracious  lives  and  manners  fine, 
The  teacher  shall  assert  her  claims, 

And    proudly    whisper,     "  These    were 
mine  ! " 


HYMN  OF  THE  CHILDREN 

Sung1  at  the  anniversary  of  the    Children's 
Mission,  Boston,  1878. 

THINE  are  all  the  gifts,  O  God  ! 

Thine  the  broken  bread  ; 
Let  the  naked  feet  be  shod, 

And  the  starving  fed. 

Let  Thy  children,  by  Thy  grace, 

Give  as  they  abound, 
Till  the  poor  have  breathirig-spaoe, 

And  the  lost  are  found. 

Wiser  than  the  miser's  hoards 

Is  the  giver's  choice  ; 
Sweeter  than  the  song  of  birds 

Is  the  thankful  voice. 

Welcome  smiles  on  faces  sad 

As  the  flowers  of  spring  ; 
Let  the  tender  hearts  be  glad 

With  the  joy  they  bring. 

Happier  for  their  pity's  sake 
Make  their  sports  and  plays, 

And  from  lips  of  childhood  take 
Thy  perfected  praise  ! 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


THE    LANDMARKS 

This  poem  was  read  at  a  meeting  of  citizens 
of  Boston  having1  for  its  object  the  preservation 
of  the  Old  South  Church,  famous  in  Colonial 
and  Revolutionary  history. 


THROUGH  the  streets  of  Marblehead 
Fast  the  red-winged  terror  sped  ; 

Blasting1,  withering,  on  it  came, 
With  its  hundred  tongues  of  flaine, 

Where  St.  Michael's  on  its  way 
Stood  like  chained  Andromeda, 

Waiting  on  the  rock,  like  her, 
Swift  doom  or  deliverer  ! 

Church  that,  after  sea-moss  grew 
Over  walls  no  longer  new, 

Counted  generations  five, 
Four  entombed  and  one  alive  ; 

Heard  the  martial  thousand  tread 
Battleward  from  Marblehead  ; 

Saw  within  the  rock-walled  bay 
Treville's  lilied  pennons  play, 

And  the  fisher's  dory  met 
By  the  barge  of  Lafayette, 

Telling  good  news  in  advance 
Of  the  coming  fleet  of  France  ! 

Church  to  reverend  memories  dear, 
Quaint  in  desk  and  chandelier  ; 

Bell,  whose  century-rusted  tongue 
Burials  tolled  and  bridals  rung  ; 

Loft,  whose  tiny  organ  kept 

Keys  that  Snetzler's  hand  had  swept  ; 

Altar,  o'er  whose  tablet  old 
Sinai's  law  its  thunders  rolled  ! 

Suddenly  the  sharp  cry  came  : 
«  Look  !  St.  Michael's  is  aflame  ! " 


Round  the  low  tower  wall  the  fire 
Snake-like  wound  its  coil  of  ire. 

Sacred  in  its  gray  respect 
From  the  jealousies  of  sect, 

«  Save  it,"  seemed  the  thought  of  all, 
"  Save  it,  though  our  roof-trees  fall  !  " 

Up  the  tower  the  young  men  sprung ; 
One,  the  bravest,  outward  swung 

By  the  rope,  whose  kindling  strands 
Smoked  beneath  the  holder's  hands, 

Smiting  down  with  strokes  of  power 
Burning  fragments  from  the  tower. 

Then  the  gazing  crowd  beneath 
Broke  the  painful  pause  of  breath  ; 

Brave  men  cheered  from  street  to  street, 
With  home's  ashes  at  their  feet ; 

Houseless  women  kerchiefs  waved  : 

"  Thank  the  Lord  !  St.  Michael's  saved  !' 


In  the  heart  of  Boston  town 
Stands  the  church  of  old  renown. 

From  whose  walls  the  impulse  went 
Which  set  free  a  continent  ; 

From  whose  pulpit's  oracle 
Prophecies  of  freedom  fell  ; 

And  whose  steeple-rocking  din 
Rang  the  nation's  birth-day  in ! 

Standing  at  this  very  hour 
Perilled  like  St.  Michael's  tower, 

Held  not  in  the  clasp  of  flame, 
But  by  mammon's  grasping  claim. 

Shall  it  be  of  Boston  said 

She  is  shamed  by  Marblehead  ? 

City  of  our  pride  !  as  there, 
Hast  thou  none  to  do  and  dare  ? 

Life  was  risked  for  Michael's  shrine  ; 
Shall  not  wealth  be  staked  for  thine  ? 


A  GREETING 


237 


Woe  to  thee,  when  men  shall  search 
Vainly  for  the  Old  South  Church  ; 

When  from  Neck  to  Boston  Stone, 
All  thy  pride  of  place  is  gone  ; 

When  from  Bay  and  railroad  car, 
Stretched  before  them  wide  and  far, 

Men  shall  only  see  a  great 
Wilderness  of  brick  and  slate, 

Every  holy  spot  o'erlaid 

By  the  commonplace  of  trade  ! 

City  of  our  love  !  to  thee 
Duty  is  but  destiny. 

True  to  all  thy  record  saith, 
Keep  with  thy  traditions  faith  ; 

Ere  occasion  's  overpast, 
Hold  its  flowing  forelock  fast  ; 

Honor  still  the  precedents 
Of  a  grand  munificence  ; 

In  thy  old  historic  way 
Give,  as  thou  didst  yesterday 

At  the  South-land's  call,  or  on 
Need's  demand  from  fired  St.  John. 

Set  thy  Church's  muffled  bell 
Free  the  generous  deed  to  tell. 

Let  thy  loyal  hearts  rejoice 
In  the  glad,  sonorous  voice, 

Ringing  from  the  brazen  mouth 
Of  the  bell  of  the  Old  South,  — 

Ringing  clearly,  with  a  will, 

"  What  she  was  is  Boston  still  ! " 


GARDEN 

A  hymn  for  the  American  Horticultural  So 
ciety,  1882.  [Originally  written  to  be  sung  at 
an  agricultural  and  horticultural  fair  in  Ames- 
bury  in  1853.  It  was  translated  into  Portu 
guese  by  Dom  Pedro,  Emperor  of  Brazil,  and 
read  at  a  harvest  festival.  It  has  been  trans 
lated  into  Italian  also  and  sung  by  peasants  at 
the  gathering  of  the  vintage.] 


O  PAINTER  of  the  fruits  and  flowers, 

We  own  Thy  wise  design, 
Whereb}r  these  humai?  hands  of  ours 

May  share  the  work  of  Thine  ! 

Apart  from  Thee  we  plant  in  vain 

The  root  and  sow  the  seed  ; 
Thy  early  and  Thy  later  rain, 

Thy  sun  and  dew  we  need. 

Our  toil  is  sweet  with  thankfulness, 

Our  burden  is  our  boon  ; 
The  curse  of  Earth's  gray  morning  is 

The  blessing  of  its  noon. 

Why  search  the  wide  world  everywhere 
For  Eden's  unknown  ground  ? 

That  garden  of  the  primal  pair 
May  nevermore  be  found. 

But,  blest  by  Thee,  our  patient  toil 

May  right  the  ancient  wrong, 
And  give  to  every  clime  and  soil 

The  beauty  lost  so  long. 

Our  homestead  flowers  and  fruited  trees 

May  Eden's  orchard  shame  ; 
We  taste  the  tempting  sweets  of  these 

Like  Eve,  without  her  blame. 

And,  North  and  South  and  East  and  West, 

The  pride  of  every  zone, 
The  fairest,  rarest,  and  the  best 

May  all  be  made  our  own. 

Its  earliest  shrines  the  young  world  sought 

In  hill-groves  and  in  bowers, 
The  fittest  offerings  thither  brought 

Were  Thy  own  fruits  and  flowers. 

And  still  with  reverent  hands  we  cull 
Thy  gifts  each  year  renewed  ; 

The  good  is  always  beautiful, 
The  beautiful  is  good. 


A   GREETING 

Read  at  Harriet  Beecher  Stowe's  seventieth 
anniversary,  June  14,  1882,  at  a  garden  party 
at  ex-Governor  Claflin's  in  Newtonville,  Mass, 

THRICE  welcome  from  the  Land  of  Flowers 

And  golden-fruited  orange  bowers 

To  this  sweet,  green-turfed  June  of  ours  1 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


To  her  who,  in  our  evil  time, 
Dragged  into  light  the  nation's  crime 
With  strength  beyond  the  strength  of  men, 
And,  mightier  than  their  swords,  her  pen  ! 
To  her  who  world-wide  entrance  gave 
To  the  log-cabin  of  the  slave  ; 
Made  all  his  wrongs  arid  sorrows  known, 
And  all  earth's  languages  his  own,  — 
North,   South,  and  East   and  West,  made 

all 

The  common  air  electrical, 
Until  the  o'ercharged  bolts  of  heaven 
Blazed  down,  and  every  chain  was  riven  ! 

vVelcome  from  each  and  all  to  her 
Whose  Wooing  of  the  Minister 
Revealed  the  warm  heart  of  the  man 
Beneath  the  creed-bound  Puritan, 
And  taught  the  kinship  of  the  love 
Of  man  below  and  God  above  ; 
To  her  whose  vigorous  pencil-strokes 
Sketched  into  life  her  Old  town  Folks  ; 
Whose  fireside  stories,  grave  or  gay, 
In  quaint  Sam  Lawson's  vagrant  way, 
With  old  New  England's  flavor  rife, 
Waifs  from  her  rude  idyllic  life, 
Are  racy  as  the  legends  old 
By  Chaucer  or  Boccaccio  told  ; 
To  her  who  keeps,  through  change  of  place 
And  time,  her  native  strength  and  grace, 
Alike  where  warm  Sorrento  smiles, 
Or  where,  by  birchen-shaded  isles, 
Whose  summer  winds  have  shivered  o'er 
The  icy  drift  of  Labrador, 
She  lifts  to  light  the  priceless  Pearl 
Of  Harpswell's  angel-beckoned  girl  ! 
To  her  at  threescore  years  and  ten 
Be  tributes  of  the  tongue  and  pen  ; 
Be  honor,  praise,  and  heart-thanks  given, 
The  loves  of  earth,  the  hopes  of  heaven  ! 

Ah,  dearer  than  the  praise  that  stirs 
The  air  to-day,  our  love  is  hers  ! 
She  needs  no  guaranty  of  fame 
Whose  own  is  linked  with  Freedom's  name. 
Long  ages  after  ours  shall  keep 
Her  memory  living  while  we  sleep  ; 
The  waves  that  wash  our  gray  coast  lines, 
The  winds  that  rock  the  Southern  pines, 
Shall  sing  of  her  ;   the  unending  years 
Shall  tell  her  tale  in  unborn  ears. 
And  when,  with  sins  and  follies  past, 
Are  numbered  color-hate  and  caste, 
White,  black,  and  red  shall  own  as  one 
The  noblest  work  by  woman  done. 


GODSPEED 

Written  on  the  occasion  of  a  voyage  made 
by  my  friends  Annie  Fields  and  Sarah  Orne 
Jewett. 

OUTBOUND,  your  bark  awaits  you.      Were 

I  one 
Whose  prayer  availeth  much,  my  wish 

should  be 
Your  favoring  trade-wind  and  consenting 

sea. 

By  sail  or  steed  was  never  love  outrun, 
And,  here  or   there,  love    follows   her   in 

whom 

All  graces  and  sweet  charities  unite, 
The  old  Greek  beauty  set  in  holier  light  ; 
And  her  for  whom  New  England's  byways 

bloom, 
Who   walks   among   us    welcome    as    the 

Spring, 
Calling  up  blossoms  where  her  light  feet 

stray. 
God  keep  you  both,  make  beautiful  your 

way, 
Comfort,  console,  and  bless  ;    and   safely 

bring, 

Ere  yet  I  make  upon  a  vaster  sea 
The    unreturning   voyage,  my   friends   to 


WINTER    ROSES 

In  reply  to  a  flower  gift  from  Mrs.  Putnam's 
school  at  Jamaica  Plain. 

MY  garden  roses  long  ago 

Have    perished   from   the    leaf  -  strewn 

walks  ; 
Their  pale,  fair  sisters  smile  no  more 

Upon  the  sweet-brier  stalks. 

Gone  with  the  flower-time  of  my  life, 
Spring's     violets,     summer's     blooming 
pride, 

And  Nature's  winter  and  my  own 
Stand,  flowerless,  side  by  side. 

So  might  I  yesterday  have  sung  ; 

To-day,  in  bleak  December's  noon, 
Come     sweetest     fragrance,    shapes,    and 
hues, 

The  rosy  wealth  of  June  ! 


NORUMBEGA   HALL 


239 


Bless  the  young  hands  that  culled  the  gift, 
And  bless  the  hearts  that  prompted  it ; 

If  undeserved  it  comes,  at  least 
It  seems  not  all  unfit. 

Of  old  my  Quaker  ancestors 

Had  gifts  of  forty  stripes  save  one  ; 

To-day  as  many  roses  crown 
The  gray  head  of  their  son. 

And  with  them,  to  my  fancy's  eye, 
The  fresh-faced  givers  smiling  come, 

And  nine  and  thirty  happy  girls 
Make  glad  a  lonely  room. 

They  bring  the  atmosphere  of  youth  ; 

The  light  and  warmth  of  long  ago 
Are  in  my  heart,  and  on  my  cheek 

The  airs  of  morning  blow. 

O  buds  of  girlhood,  yet  unblown, 
And  fairer  than  the  gift  ye  chose, 

For  you  may  years  like  leaves  unfold 
The  heart  of  Sharon's  rose  ! 


THE    REUNION 

Read  September  10,  1885,  to  the  surviving" 
students  of  Haverhill  Academy  in  1827-1830. 

THE  gulf  of  seven  and  fifty  years 

We  stretch  our  welcoming  hands  across  ; 
The  distance  but  a  pebble's  toss 

Between  us  and  our  youth  appears. 

For  in  life's  school  we  linger  on 
The  remnant  of  a  once  full  list  ; 
Conning  our  lessons,  undisrnissed, 

With  faces  to  the  setting  sun. 

And  some  have  gone  the  unknown  way, 
And  some  await  the  call  to  rest  ; 
Who  knoweth  whether  it  is  best 

For  those  who  went  or  those  who  stay  ? 

And  yet  despite  of  loss  and  ill, 

If  faith  and  love  and  hope  remain, 
Our  length  of  days  is  not  in  vain, 

And  life  is  well  worth  living  still. 

Still  to  a  gracious  Providence 

The  thanks  of  grateful  hearts  are  due, 
For  blessings  when  our  lives  were  new, 

For  all  the  good  vouchsafed  us  since. 


The  pain  that  spared  us  sorer  hurt, 
The  wish  denied,  the  purpose  crossed, 
And  pleasure's  fond  occasions  lost, 

Were  mercies  to  our  small  desert. 

'Tis  something  that  we  wander  back, 
Gray  pilgrims,  to  our  ancient  ways, 
And  tender  memories  of  old  days 

Walk  with  us  by  the  Merrimac  ; 

That  even  in  life's  afternoon 

A  sense  of  youth  comes  back  again, 
As  through  this  cool  September  rain 

The  still  green  woodlands  dream  of  June. 

The  eyes  grown  dim  to  present  things 
Have  keener  sight  for  bygone  years, 
And  sweet  and  clear,  in  deafening  ears, 

The  bird  that  sang  at  morning  sings. 

Dear  comrades,  scattered  wide  and  far, 
Send  from  their  homes  their  kindly  word, 
And  dearer  ones,  unseen,  unheard, 

Smile  on  us  from  some  heavenly  star. 

For  life  and  death  with  God  are  one, 
Unchanged  by  seeming  change  His  care 
And  love  are  round  us  here  and  there  ; 

He  breaks  no  thread  His  hand  has  spun. 

Soul  touches  soul,  the  muster  roll 

Of  life  eternal  has  no  gaps  ; 

And  after  half  a  century's  lapse 
Our  school-day  ranks  are  closed  and  whole. 

Hail  and  farewell  !     We  go  our  way  ; 

Where  shadows  end,  we  trust  in  light ; 

The  star  that  ushers  in  the  night 
Is  herald  also  of  the  day  ! 


NORUMBEGA   HALL 

Norumbega  Hall  at  Wellesley  College, 
named  in  honor  of  Eben  Norton  Horsford,  who 
was  one  of  the  most  munificent  patrons  of 
that  noble  institution,  and  who  had  just  pub 
lished  an  essay  claiming  the  discovery  of  the 
site  of  the  somewhat  mythical  city  of  Norum- 
bega,  was  opened  with  appropriate  ceremonies, 
in  April,  1886.  The  following  sonnet  was  writ 
ten  for  the  occasion,  and  was  read  by  President 
Alice  E.  Freeman,  to  whom  it  was  addressed. 

NOT  on  Penobscot's  wooded  bank  the  spires 
Of  the  sought  City  rose,  nor  yet  beside 


24° 


OCCASIONAL   POEMS 


The  winding  Charles,  nor  where  the  daily 

tide 

Of  Naumkeag's  haven  rises  and  retires, 
The  vision  tarried  ;  but  somewhere  we  knew 
The   beautiful    gates    must    open    to    our 

quest, 
Somewhere    that    marvellous   City  of   the 

West 
Would  lift  its  towers  and  palace  domes  in 

view, 
And,    lo  !    at    last   its    mystery    is    made 

known  — 

Its  only  dwellers  maidens  fair  and  young, 
Its  Princess   such  as    England's    Laureate 

sung  ; 

And  safe  from  capture,  save  by  love  alone, 
It    lends    its   beauty  to   the   lake's    green 

shore, 
And  Norumbega  is  a  myth  no  more. 


THE   BARTHOLDI    STATUE 

1886 

I  HE  land,  that,  from  the  rule  of  kings, 
In  freeing  us,  itself  made  free, 

Our  Old  World  Sister,  to  us  brings 
Her  sculptured  Dream  of  Liberty  : 

Unlike  the  shapes  on  Egypt's  sands 
Uplifted  by  the  toil-worn  slave, 

On  Freedom's  soil  with  freemen's  hands 
We  rear  the  symbol  free  hands  gave. 

O  France,  the  beautiful  !  to  thee 
Once  more  a  debt  of  love  we  owe  : 

In  peace  beneath  thy  Colors  Three, 
We  hail  a  later  Rochambeau  ! 

Rise,  stately  Symbol  !  holding  forth 
Thy  light  and  hope  to  all  who  sit 

In  chains  and  darkness  !     Belt  the  earth 
With   watch-fires   from    thy    torch    up- 
lit ! 

Reveal  the  primal  mandate  still 

Which  Chaos  heard  and  ceased  to  be, 

Trace  on  mid-air  th'  Eternal  Will 

In  signs  of  fire  :  "  Let  man  be  free  !  " 

Shine  far,  shine  free,  a  guiding  light 
To  Reason's  ways  and  Virtue's  aim, 

A  lightning-flash  the  wretch  to  smite 
Who  shields  his  license  with  thy  name  S 


ONE    OF    THE    SIGNERS 

Written  for  the  unveiling  of  the  statue  of 
Josiah  Bartlett  at  Amesbury,  Mass.,  July  4, 
1888.  Governor  Bartlett,  who  was  a  native 
of  the  town,  was  a  signer  of  the  Declaration 
of  Independence.  Amesbury  or  Ambresbury, 
so  called  from  the  "anointed  stones"  of  the 
great  Druidical  temple  near  it,  was  the  seat  of 
one  of  the  earliest  religious  houses  in  Britain. 
The  tradition  that  the  guilty  wife  of  King  Ar 
thur  fled  thither  for  protection  forms  one  of 
the  finest  passages  in  Tennyson's  Idylls  of  the 
King. 

O  STORIED  vale  of  Merrimac, 

Rejoice    through     all    thy    shade    and 

shine, 
And  from  his  century's  sleep  call  back 

A  brave  and  honored  son  of  thine. 

Unveil  his  effigy  between 

The  living  and  the  dead  to-day  ; 

The  fathers  of  the  Old  Thirteen 
Shall  witness  bear  as  spirits  may. 

Unseen,  unheard,  his  gray  compeers, 
The  shades  of  Lee  and  Jefferson, 

Wise  Franklin  reverend  with  his  years, 
And  Carroll,  lord  of  Carrollton  ! 

Be  thine  henceforth  a  pride  of  place 
Beyond  thy  namesake's  over-sea, 

Where  scarce  a  stone  is  left  to  trace 
The  Holy  House  of  Amesbury. 

A  prouder  memory  lingers  round 
The  birthplace  of  thy  true  man  here 

Than  that  which  haunts  the  refuge  found 
By  Arthur's  mythic  Guinevere. 

The  plain  deal  table  where  he  sat 
And  signed  a  nation's  title-deed 

Is  dearer  now  to  fame  than  that 

Which  bore  the  scroll  of  Ruunymede. 

Long  as,  on  Freedom's  natal  morn, 
Shall  ring  the  Independence  bells, 

Give  to  thy  dwellers  yet  unborn 
The  lesson  which  his  image  tells. 

For  in  that  hour  of  Destiny, 

Which  tried  the  men  of  bravest  stock. 
He  knew  the  end  alone  must  be 

A  free  land  or  a  traitor's  block. 


ONE  OF   THE   SIGNERS 


241 


Among  those  picked  and  chosen  men 

Than  his,  who  here  first  drew  his  breath, 

No  firmer  fingers  held  the  pen 
Which  wrote  for  liberty  or  death. 

Not  for  their  hearths  and  homes  alone, 
But  for  the  world  their  work  was  done  ; 

On  all  the  winds  their  thought  has  flown 
Through  all  the  circuit  of  the  sun. 

We  trace  its  flight  by  broken  chains, 
By  songs  of  grateful  Labor  still ; 


To-day,  in  all  her  holy  fanes, 

It  rings  the  bells  of  freed  Brazil. 

O  hills  that  watched  his  boyhood's  home, 
O  earth  and  air  that  nursed  him,  give, 

In  this  memorial  semblance,  room 
To  him  who  shall  its  bronze  outlive  ! 

And  thou,  O  Land  he  loved,  rejoice 
That  in  the  countless  years  to  come, 

Whenever  Freedom  needs  a  voice, 

These  sculptured  lips  shall  not  be  dumb  I 


THE  TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


THE  TENT  ON   THE  BEACH 

It  can  scarcely  be  necessary  to  name  as  the 
two  companions  whom  I  reckoned  with  myself 
in  this  poetical  picnic,  Fields  the  lettered  mag 
nate  ,  and  Taylor  the  free  cosmopolite.  The 
long  line  of  sandy  beach  which  defines  almost 
the  whole  of  the  New  Hampshire  sea-coast  is 
especially  marked  near  its  southern  extremity, 
by  the  salt-meadows  of  Hampton.  The  Hamp 
ton  River  winds  through  these  meadows,  and 
the  reader  may,  if  he  choose,  imagine  my  tent 
pitched  near  its  mouth,  where  also  was  the 
scene  of  the  Wreck  of  River  mouth.  The  green 
bluff  to  the  northward  is  Great  Boar's  Head ; 
southward  is  the  Marrimac,  with  Newburyport 
lifting  its  steeples  above  brown  roofs  and  green 
trees  on  its  banks.  [Mr.  Whittier  originally 
designed  following  the  Decameron  method  and 
feigning  that  each  person  read  his  own  poem, 
but  abandoned  it  as  too  hackneyed.] 

I    WOULD    not    sin,   in    this    half -playful 

strain, — 
Too    light    perhaps    for    serious    years, 

though  born 
Of  the  enforced  leisure  of  slow  pain,  — 

Against  the  pure  ideal  which  has  drawn 
My  feet  to  follow  its  far-shining  gleam. 
A  simple  plot  is  mine  :  legends  and  runes 
Of  credulous  days,  old  fancies  that  have  lain 
Silent  from  boyhood  taking  voice  again, 
Warmed  into  life  otice  more,  even  as  the 

tunes 

That,  frozen  in  the  fabled  hunting-horn, 
Thawed    into   sound  :  —  a    winter    fireside 

dream 

Of  dawns  and  sunsets  by  the  summer  sea, 
Whose    sands   are    traversed   by    a   silent 

throng 

Of  voyagers  from  that  vaster  mystery 
Of  which  it  is  an  emblem  ;  —  and  the  dear 
Memory  of  one  who  might  have  tuned  my 

song 
To  sweeter  music  by  her  delicate  ear. 


When  heats  as  of  a  tropic  clime 

Burned  all  our  inland  valleys  through, 


Three    friends,   the    guests  of    summer 

time, 

Pitched   their  white   tent  where   sea- 
winds  blew. 
Behind     them,    marshes,     seamed     and 

crossed 
With    narrow    creeks,    and    flower-em' 

bossed, 
Stretched  to  the  dark  oak  wood,  whose  leafy 

arms 

Screened  from  the  stormy  East  the  pleasant 
inland  farms. 

At  full  of  tide  their  bolder  shore 

Of  sun-bleached  sand  the  waters  beat : 
At  ebb,  a  smooth  and  glistening  floor 

They  touched  with  light,  receding  feet. 
Northward  a  green  bluff  broke  the  chain 
Of  sand  -  hills  ;  southward  stretched  a 

plain 

Of  salt  grass,  with  a  river  winding  down, 
Sail-whitened,  and  beyond  the  steeples  of 
the  town, — 

Whence  sometimes,  when  the  wind  was 

light 

And  dull  the  thunder  of  the  beach, 
They  heard  the  bells  of  morn  and  night 
Swing,  miles  away,  their  silver  speech. 
Above  low  scarp  and  turf-grown  wall 
They  saw  the  fort-flag  rise  and  fall ; 
And,   the   first    star    to    signal   twilight's 

hour, 

The  lamp-fire  glimmer  down  from  the  tall 
light-house  tower. 

They  rested  there,  escaped  awhile 

From  cares  that  wear  the  life  away, 
To  eat  the  lotus  of  the  Nile 

And  drink  the  poppies  of  Cathay, — 
To  fling  their  loads  of  custom  down, 
Like    drift  -  weed,    on    the    sand  -  slopes 

brown, 
And  in  the  sea-waves  drown  the  restless 

pack 

Of  duties,  claims,  and  needs  that  barked 
upon  their  track. 


THE  TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


243 


One,  with  his  beard  scarce  silvered,  bore 

A  ready  credence  in  his  looks, 
A  lettered  magnate,  lording  o'er 

An  ever- widening  realm  of  books. 
In  him  brain-en rrents,  near  and  far, 
Converged  as  in  a  Leyden  jar  ; 
The  old,  dead  authors  thronged  him  round 

about, 

And    Elzevir's  gray  ghosts  from   leathern 
graves  looked  out. 

He  knew  each  living  pundit  well, 

Could  weigh  the  gifts  of  him  or  her, 
And  well  the  market  value  tell 

Of  poet  and  philosopher. 
But  if  he  lost,  the  scenes  behind, 
Somewhat  of  reverence  vague  and  blind, 
Finding  the  actors  human  at  the  best, 
No  readier  lips  than  his  the  good  he  saw 
confessed. 

His  boyhood  fancies  not  outgrown, 

He  loved  himself  the  singer's  art  ; 
Tenderly,  gently,  by  his  own 

He  knew  and  judged  an  author's  heart. 
No  Rhadamanthine  brow  of  doom 
Bowed  the  dazed  pedant  from  his  room  ; 
And  bards,  whose  name  is  legion,  if  denied, 
Bore  off  alike  intact  their  verses  and  their 
pride. 

Pleasant  it  was  to  roam  about 

The  lettered  world  as  he  had  done, 
And  see  the  lords  of  song  without 

Their  singing  robes  and  garlands  on. 
With  Wordsworth  paddle  Rydal  mere, 
Taste  rugged  Elliott's  home-brewed  beer, 
And  with  the  ears  of  Rogers,  at  fourscore, 
Hear  Garrick's    buskined  tread  and  Wai- 
pole's  wit  once  more. 

And  one  there  was,  a  dreamer  born, 

Who,  with  a  mission  to  fulfil, 
Had  left  the  Muses'  haunts  to  turn 

The  crank  of  an  opinion-mill, 
Making  his  rustic  reed  of  song 
A  weapon  in  the  war  with  wrong, 
Yoking  his  fancy  to  the  breaking-plough 
That  beam-deep  turned  the  soil  for  truth  to 
spring  and  grow. 

Too  quiet  seemed  the  man  to  ride 
The  winged  Hippogriff  Reform  ; 

Was  his  a  voice  from  side  to  side 
To  pierce  the  tumult  of  the  storm  ? 


A  silent,  shy,  peace-loving  man, 

He  seemed  no  fiery  partisan 
To  hold  his  way  against  the  public  frown, 
The  ban  of   Church  and  State,  the   fierce 
mob's  hounding  down. 

For  while  he  wrought  with  strenuous  will 

The  work  his  hands  had  found  to  do, 
He  heard  the  fitful  music  still 

Of  winds  that  out  of  dream-land  blew. 
The  din  about  him  could  not  drown 
What  the  strange  voices  whispered  down  ; 
Along  his  task-field  weird  processions  swept, 
The    visionary  pomp  of   stately  phantoms 
stepped. 

The  common  air  was  thick  with  dreams, — - 

He  told  them  to  the  toiling  crowd  ; 
Such  music  as  the  woods  and  streams 

Sang  in  his  ear  he  sang  aloud  ; 
In  still,  shut  bays,  on  windy  capes, 
He  heard  the  call  of  beckoning  shapes, 
And,  as  the    gray  old  shadows  prompted 

him, 

To   homely  moulds  of   rhyme    he    shaped 
their  legends  grim. 

He  rested  now  his  weary  hands, 

And  lightly  moralized  and  laughed, 
As,  tracing  on  the  shifting  sands 
A  burlesque  of  his  paper-craft, 
He  saw  the  careless  waves  o'errun 
His  words,  as  time  before  had  done, 
Each  day's  tide- water  washing  clean  away, 
Like  letters  from  the  sand,  the  work  of 
yesterday. 

And  one,  whose  Arab  face  was  tanned 

By  tropic  sun  and  boreal  frost, 
So  travelled  there  was  scarce  a  land 

Or  people  left  him  to  exhaust, 
In  idling  mood  had  from  him  hurled 
The  poor  squeezed  orange  of  the  world, 
And    in    the   tent  -  shade,   sat   beneath   a 

palm, 

Smoked,  cross-legged  like  a  Turk,  in  Ori 
ental  calm. 

The  very  waves  that  washed  the  sand 
Below  him,  he  had  seen  before 

Whitening  the  Scandinavian  strand 
And  sultry  Mauritania!!  shore. 

From   ice-rimmed    isles,   from    summer 
seas 

Palm-fringed,  they  bore  him  messages 


THE  TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


He  heard  the  plaintive  Nubian  songs  again, 
And  mule-bells  tinkling  down  the  mountain- 
paths  of  Spain. 

His  memory  round  the  ransacked  earth 

On  Puck's  long  girdle  slid  at  ease  ; 
And,  instant,  to  the  valley's  girth 

Of  mountains,  spice  isles  of  the  seas, 
Faith  flowered  in  minster   stones,  Art's 

guess 

At  truth  and  beauty,  found  access  ; 
Yet  loved  the  while,  that  free  cosmopolite, 
Old   friends,  old  ways,  and  kept  his  boy 
hood's  dreams  in  sight. 

UniLOuched  as  yet  by  wealth  and  pride, 

That  virgin  innocence  of  beach  : 
No  shingly  monster,  hundred-eyed, 

Stared  its  gray  sand-birds  out  of  reach  ; 
Unhoused,  save  where,  at  intervals, 
The    white   tents   showed    their    canvas 

walls, 
Where  brief   sojourners,  in   the  cool,  soft 

air, 

Forgot   their  inland  heats,  hard  toil,  and 
year-long  care. 

Sometimes  along  the  wheel-deep  sand 
A  one-horse  wagon  slowly  crawled, 
Deep  laden  with  a  youthful  band, 

Whose    look  some  homestead  old  re 
called  ; 

Brother  perchance,  and  sisters  twain, 
And   one   whose   blue   eyes   told,    more 

plain 

fhan  the  free  language  of  her  rosy  lip, 
Of  the  still  dearer  claim  of  love's  relation 
ship. 

With  cheeks  of  russet-orchard  tint, 

The  light  laugh  of  their  native  rills, 
The  perfume  of  their  garden's  mint, 

The  breezy  freedom  of  the  hills, 
They  bore,  in  unrestrained  delight, 
The  motto  of  the  Garter's  knight, 
Careless  as  if  from  every  gazing  thing 
Hid   by  their  innocence,  as  Gyges  by  his 


The  clanging  sea-fowl  came  and  went, 
The  hunter's  gun  in  the  marshes  rang  ; 

At  nightfall  from  a  neighboring  tent 
A  flute-voiced  woman  sweetly  sang. 

Loose-haired,  barefooted,  hand-in-hand, 

Young  girls  went  tripping  down  the  sand; 


And  youths   and    maidens,  sitting   in   the 

moon, 
Dreamed  o'er   the  old   fond   dream   from 

which  we  wake  too  soon. 

At  times  their  fishing-lines  they  plied, 

With  an  old  Triton  at  the  oar, 
Salt  as  the  sea-wind,  tough  and  dried 

As  a  lean  cusk  from  Labrador. 
Strange    tales    he    told   of   wreck    and 

storm, — 

Had  seen  the  sea-snake's  awful  form, 
And  heard  the  ghosts  on  Haley's  Isle  com 
plain, 

Speak  him  off  shore,  and  beg  a  passage  to 
old  Spain  ! 

And  there,  on  breezy  morns,  they  saw 
The  fishing-schooners  outward  run, 
Their  low-bent  sails  in  tack  and  flaw 
Turned  white  or  dark   to  shad«   and 

sun. 

Sometimes,  in  calms  of  closing  day, 
They  watched  the  spectral  mirage  play, 
Saw  low,  far  islands  looming  tall  and  nigh, 
And  ships,  with  upturned  keels,  sail  like  a 
sea  the  sky. 

Sometimes  a  cloud,  with  thunder  black, 

Stooped  low  upon  the  darkening  main, 
Piercing  the  waves  along  its  track 
With  the  slant  javelins  of  rain. 
And  when  west-wind  and  sunshine  warm 
Chased  out  to  sea  its  wrecks  of  storm, 
They  saw  the   prismy  hues  in  thin  spray 

showers 

Where  the  green  buds  of  waves  burst  into 
white  froth  flowers. 

And  when  along  the  line  of  shore 

The    mists   crept    upward    chill    and 

damp, 
Stretched,  careless,  on  their  sandy  floor 

Beneath  the  flaring  lantern  lamp, 

They  talked  of  all  things  old  and  new, 

Read,  slept,  and  dreamed  as  idlers  do  ; 

And  in  the  unquestioned   freedom  of  the 

tent, 

Body  and  o'er-taxed  mind  to  healthful  ease 
unbent. 

Once,  when  the  sunset  splendors  died, 
And,  trampling  up  the  sloping  sand, 

In  lines  outreaching  far  and  wide, 

The  white-maned  billows  swept  to  land, 


THE  WRECK   OF   RIVERMOUTH 


24S 


Dim  seen  across  the  gathering  shade, 
A  vast  and  ghostly  cavalcade, 
They  sat  around  their  lighted  kerosene, 
Hearing  the    deep    bass  roar   their   every 
pause  between. 

Then,  urged  thereto,  the  Editor 

Within  his  full  portfolio  dipped, 
Feigning  excuse  while  searching  for 

(With  secret  pride)  his  manuscript. 
His  pale  face  flushed  from  eye  to  beard, 
With  nervous  cough  his  throat  he  cleared, 
And,  in  a  voice  so  tremulous  it  betrayed 
The  anxious  fondness  of  an  author's  heart, 
he  read  : 


THE   WRECK  OF   RIVERMOUTH 

r  The  Goody  Cole  who  figures  in  this  poem  and 
The  Changeling  was  Eunice  Cole,  who  for  a 
quarter  of  a  century  or  more  was  feared,  per 
secuted,  and  hated  as  the  witch  of  Hampton. 
She  lived  alone  in  a  hovel  a  little  distant  from 
the  spot  where  the  Hampton  Academy  now 
stands,  and  there  she  died,  unattended.  When 
her  death  was  discovered,  she  was  hastily  cov 
ered  up  in  the  earth  near  by,  and  a  stake 
driven  through  her  body,  to  exorcise  the  evil 
spirit.  Rev.  Stephen  Bachiler  or  Batchelder 
was  one  of  the  ablest  of  the  early  New  Eng 
land  preachers  His  marriage  late  in  life  to  a 
woman  regarded  by  his  church  as  disreputable 
induced  him  to  return  to  England,  where  he 
enjoyed  the  esteem  and  favor  of  Oliver  Crom 
well  during  the  Protectorate. 

RIVERMOUTH  Rocks  are  fair  to  see, 

By  dawn  or  sunset  shone  across, 
When  the  ebb  of   the  sea  has   left  them 

free 

To  dry  their  fringes  of  gold-green  moss  : 
For  there  the  river  comes  winding  down, 
From  salt  sea-meadows  and  uplands  brown, 
And  waves  on  the  outer  rocks  afoam 
Shout  to  its  waters,  "  Welcome  home  !  " 

And  fair  are  the  sunny  isles  in  view 
East  of  the  grisly  Head  of  the  Boar, 

And  Agamenticus  lifts  its  blue 

Disk  of  a  cloud  the  woodlands  o'er  ; 

And  southerly,  when  the  tide  is  down, 

Twixt   white   sea -waves   and    sand-hills 
brown, 

The  beach-birds  dance  and  the  gray  gulls 
wheel 

Over  a  floor  of  burnished  steel. 


Once,  in  the  old  Colonial  days, 

Two  hundred  years  ago  and  more, 
A  boat  sailed  down  through  the   winding 

ways 

Of  Hampton  River  to  that  low  shore, 
Full  of  a  goodly  company 
Sailing  out  on  the  summer  sea, 
Veering  to  catch  the  land-breeze  light, 
With  the  Boar  to   left  and  the  Rocks  to 
right. 

In  Hampton  meadows,  where  mowers  laid 
Their   scythes   to  the  swaths   of   salted 

grass, 

"  Ah,  well-a-day  !  our  hay  must  be  made  ! " 
A   young   man   sighed,  who   saw    them 

pass. 

Loud  laughed  his  fellows  to  see  him  stand 
Whetting  his  scythe  with  a  listless  hand, 
Hearing  a  voice  in  a  far-off  song, 
Watching  a  white  hand  beckoning  long. 

"  Fie  on  the  witch  !  "  cried  a  merry  girl, 
As  they  rounded  the  point  where  Goody 
Cole 

Sat  by  her  door  with  her  wheel  atwirl, 
A  bent  and  blear-eyed  poor  old  soul. 

"  Oho  !  "  she  muttered,  "  ye  're  brave  to 
day  ! 

But  I  hear  the  little  waves  laugh  and  say, 

'  The  broth  will  be  cold  that  waits  at  home  ; 

For  it 's  one  to  go,  but  another  to  come  ! '  " 

"  She  's  cursed,"  said  the  skipper  ;  "  speak 

her  fair  : 

I  'm  scary  always  to  see  her  shake 
Her  wicked  head,  with  its  wild  gray  hair, 
And  nose  like  a  hawk,  and  eyes  like  a 

snake." 

But  merrily  still,  with  laugh  and  shout, 
From  Hampton  River  the  boat  sailed  out, 
Till  the  huts  and  the  flakes  on  Star  seemed 

nigh, 
And  they  lost  the  scent  of  the  pines  of  Rye. 

They  dropped  their  lines  in  the  lazy  tide, 
Drawing  up  haddock  and  mottled  cod  ; 

They  saw  not  the  Shadow  that  walked  be 
side, 
They  heard  not  the  feet  with  silence  shod. 

But  thicker  and  thicker  a  hot  mist  grew. 

Shot  by  the  lightnings  through  and  through; 

And  muffled  growls,  like   the  growl  of  a 
beast, 

Ran  along  the  sky  from  west  to  east. 


246 


THE   TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


Then  the  skipper  looked  from  the  darken 
ing  sea 

Up  to  the  dimmed  and  wading  sun  ; 
But  he  spake  like  a  brave  man  cheerily, 
"  Yet  there  is  time  for  our    homeward 

run." 

Veering  and  tacking,  they  backward  wore  ; 
And  just  as  a  breath  from  the  woods  ashore 
Blew  out  to  whisper  of  danger  past, 
The  wrath  of    the    storm   came    down   at 
last! 

The  skipper  hauled  at  the  heavy  sail  : 

"  God  be  our  help  !  "  he  only  cried, 
As  the  roaring  gale,  like  the   stroke  of  a 

flail, 

Smote  the  boat  on  its  starboard  side. 
The  Shoalsmen  looked,  but  saw  alone 
Dark  films  of  rain-cloud  slantwise  blown, 
Wild  rocks  lit  up  by  the  lightning's  glare, 
The  strife  and  torment  of  sea  and  air. 

Goody  Cole  looked  out  from  her  door  : 
The  Isles  of  Shoals  were  drowned  and 

gone, 
Scarcely  she  saw  the  Head  of  the  Boar 

Toss  the  foam  from  tusks  of  stone. 
She  clasped  her  hands  with  a  grip  of  pain, 
The  tear  on  her  cheek  was  not  of  rain  : 
"They  are  lost,"  she  muttered,  "boat  and 

crew  ! 
Lord,  forgive  me  !    my  words  were  true  ! " 

Suddenly  seaward  swept  the  squall  ; 

The  low  sun  smote  through  cloudy  rack  ; 
The  Shoals  stood  clear  in  the  light,  and  all 

The    trend  of   the    coast   lay  hard   and 

black. 

But  far  and  wide  as  eye  could  reach, 
No  life  was  seen  upon  wave  or  beach  ; 
The  boat  that  went  out  at  morning  never 
Sailed  back  again  into  Hampton  River. 

0  mower,  lean  on  thy  bended  snath, 

Look  from  the  meadows  green  and  low  : 
The  wind  of  the  sea  is  a  waft  of  death, 

The  waves  are  singing  a  song  of  woe  ! 
By  silent  river,  by  moaning  sea, 
Long  and  vain  shall  thy  watching  be  : 
Never  again  shall  the  sweet  voice  call, 
Never  the  white  hand  rise  and  fall ! 

0  Rivermouth  Rocks,  how  sad  a  sight 

Ye  saw  in  the  light  of  breaking  day  1 
Dead  faces  looking  up  cold  and  white 


From  sand  and  seaweed  where  they  lay 
The  mad  old  witch-wife  wailed  and  wept, 
And  cursed  the  tide  as  it  backward  crept : 
"  Crawl  back,  crawl  back,  blue  water-snake! 
Leave  your  dead  for  the  hearts  that  break!  " 

Solemn  it  was  in  that  old  day 

In     Hampton    town    and     its    log-built 

church, 
Where  side  by  side  the  coffins  lay 

And   the   mourners   stood   in   aisle   and 

porch. 

In  the  singing-seats  young  eyes  were  dim, 
The  voices  faltered  that  raised  the  hymn, 
And  Father  Dalton,  grave  and  stern, 
Sobbed  through  his  prayer  and  wept  in  turn. 

But  his  ancient  colleague  did  not  pray  ; 

Under  the  weight  of  his  fourscore  years 
He  stood  apart  with  the  iron-gray 

Of  his  strong  brows  knitted  to  hide  his 

tears  ; 

And  a  fair-faced  woman  of  doubtful  fame, 
Linking  her  own  with  his  honored  name, 
Subtle  as  sin,  at  his  side  withstood 
The  felt  reproach  of  her  neighborhood. 

Apart  with  them,  like  them  forbid, 

Old  Goody  Cole  looked  drearily  round, 
As,  two  by  two,  with  their  faces  hid, 

The   mourners  walked   to  the    burying- 

ground. 
She  let  the  staff  from  her  clasped   hands 

fall: 

"  Lord,  forgive  us  !  we  're  sinners  all !  " 
And  the  voice  of  the  old  man  answered  her  : 
"Amen  !  "  said  Father  Bachiler. 

So,  as  I  sat  upon  Appledore 

In  the  calm  of  a  closing  summer  day, 
And  the  broken  lines  of  Hampton  shore 

In  purple  mist  of  cloudland  lay, 
The  Rivermouth  Rocks  their  story  told  ; 
And  waves  aglow  with  sunset  gold, 
Rising  and  breaking  in  steady  chime, 
Beat  the  rhythm  and  kept  the  time. 

And  the  sunset  paled,  and   warmed  onc« 

more 

With  a  softer,  tenderer  after-glow  ; 
In  the  east  was  moon-rise,  with  boats  off 
shore 

And  sails  in  the  distance  drifting  slow. 
The  beacon  glimmered  from    Po/t^aiouth 
bar, 


THE   GRAVE   BY   THE   LAKE 


247 


The  White  Isle  kindled  its  great  red  star  ; 
And  life  and  death  in  my  old-time  lay 
Mingled  in  peace  like  the  night  and  day  ! 


"  Well !  "  said  the  Man  of  Books,  "  your 

story 

Is  really  not  ill  told  in  verse. 
As  the  Celt  said  of  purgatory, 

One  might  go  farther  and  fare  worse." 
The  Reader  smiled  ;  and  once  again 
With  steadier  voice  took  up  his  strain, 
While  the  fair  singer  from  the  neighboring 

tent 

Drew  near,  and  at  his  side  a  graceful  lis 
tener  bent. 


THE   GRAVE   BY   THE   LAKE 

At  the  mouth  of  the  Melvin  River,  which 
empties  into  Moultonboro  Bay  in  Lake  Winni- 
pesaukee,  is  a  great  mound.  The  Ossipee  In 
dians  had  their  home  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  bay,  which  is  plentifully  stocked  with  fish, 
and  many  relics  of  their  occupation  have  been 
found. 

WHERE  the  Great  Lake's  sunny  smiles 
Dimple  round  its  hundred  isles, 
And  the  mountain's  granite  ledge 
Cleaves  the  water  like  a  wedge, 
Ringed  about  with  smooth,  gray  stones, 
Rest  the  giant's  mighty  bones. 

Close  beside,  in  shade  and  gleam, 
Laughs  and  ripples  Melvin  stream ; 
Melvin  water,  mountain-born, 
All  fair  flowers  its  banks  adorn  ; 
All  the  woodland  voices  meet, 
Mingling  with  its  murmurs  sweet. 

Over  lowlands  forest-grown, 
Over  waters  island-strown, 
Over  silver-sanded  beach, 
Leaf-locked  bay  and  misty  reach, 
Melvin  stream  and  burial-heap, 
Watch  and  ward  the  mountains  keep. 

Who  that  Titan  cromlech  fills  ? 
Forest-kaiser,  lord  o'  the  hills  ? 
Knight  who  on  the  birchen  tree 
Carved  his  savage  heraldry  ? 
Priest  o'  the  pine-wood  temples  dim, 
Prophet,  sage,  or  wizard  grim  ? 


Rugged  type  of  primal  man, 
Grim  utilitarian, 

Loving  woods  for  hunt  and  prowl, 
Lake  and  hill  for  fish  and  fowl, 
As  the  brown  bear  blind  and  dull 
To  the  grand  and  beautiful  : 

Not  for  him  the  lesson  drawn 
From  the  mountains  smit  with  dawn 
Star-rise,  moon-rise,  flowers  of  May, 
Sunset's  purple  bloom  of  day,  — 
Took  his  life  no  hue  from  thence, 
Poor  amid  such  affluence  ? 

Haply  unto  hill  and  tree 
All  too  near  akin  was  he  : 
Unto  him  who  stands  afar 
Nature's  marvels  greatest  are  ; 
Who  the  mountain  purple  seeks 
Must  not  climb  the  higher  peaks. 

Yet  who  knows,  in  winter  tramp, 
Or  the  midnight  of  the  camp, 
What  revealings  faint  and  far, 
Stealing  down  from  moon  and  star, 
Kindled  in  that  human  clod 
Thought  of  destiny  and  God  ? 

Stateliest  forest  patriarch, 

Grand  in  robes  of  skin  and  bark, 

What  sepulchral  mysteries, 

What  weird  funeral-rites,  were  his  ? 

What  sharp  wail,  what  drear  lament, 

Back  scared  wolf  and  eagle  sent  ? 

Now,  whate'er  he  may  have  been, 
Low  he  lies  as  other  men  ; 
On  his  mound  the  partridge  drums, 
There  the  noisy  blue-jay  comes  ; 
Rank  nor  name  nor  pomp  has  he 
In  the  grave's  democracy. 

Part  thy  blue  lips,  Northern  lake  ! 
Moss-grown  rocks,  your  silence  break! 
Tell  the  tale,  thou  ancient  tree  ! 
Thou,  ton,  slide-worn  Ossipee  ! 
Speak,  and  tell  us  how  and  when 
Lived  and  died  this  king  of  men  ! 

Wordless  moans  the  ancient  pine  ; 
Lake  and  mountain  give  no  sign  ; 
Vain  to  trace  this  ring  of  stones  ; 
Vain  the  search  of  crumbling  bones  ; 
Deepest  of  all  mysteries, 
And  the  saddest,  silence  is. 


248 


THE  TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


Nameless,  noteless,  clay  with  clay 
Mingles  slowly  day  by  day  ; 
But  somewhere,  for  good  or  ill, 
That  dark  soul  is  living  still ; 
Somewhere  yet  that  atom's  force 
Moves  the  light-poised  universe. 

Strange  that  on  his  burial-sod 
Harebells  bloom,  and  golden-rod, 
While  the  soul's  dark  horoscope 
Holds  no  starry  sign  of  hope  ! 
Is  the  Unseen  with  sight  at  odds  ? 
Nature's  pity  more  than  God's  ? 

Thus  I  mused  by  Melvin's  side, 
While  the  summer  eventide 
Made  the  woods  and  inland  sea 
And  the  mountains  mystery  ; 
And  the  hush  of  earth  and  air 
Seemed  the  pause  before  a  prayer,  — 

Prayer  for  him,  for  all  who  rest, 

Mother  Earth,  upon  thy  breast,  — 

Lapped  on  Christian  turf,  or  hid 

In  rock-cave  or  pyramid  : 

All  who  sleep,  as  all  who  live, 

Well  may  need  the  prayer,  "  Forgive  !  " 

Desert-smothered  caravan, 
Knee-deep  dust  that  once  was  man, 
Battle-trenches  ghastly  piled, 
Ocean-floors  with  white  bones  tiled, 
Crowded  tomb  and  mounded  sod, 
Dumbly  crave  that  prayer  to  God. 

Oh,  the  generations  old 

Over  whom  no  church-bells  tolled, 

Christless,  lifting  up  blind  eyes 

To  the  silence  of  the  skies  ! 

For  the  innumerable  dead 

Is  my  soul  disquieted. 

Where  be  now  these  silent  hosts  ? 
Where  the  camping-ground  of  ghosts  ? 
Where  the  spectral  conscripts  led 
To  the  white  tents  of  the  dead  ? 
What  strange  shore  or  chartless  sea 
Holds  the  awful  mystery  ? 

Then  the  warm  sky  stooped  to  make 
Double  sunset  in  the  lake  ; 
While  above  I  saw  with  it, 
Range  on  range,  the  mountains  lit ; 
And  the  calm  and  splendor  stole 
Like  an  answer  to  my  soul. 


Hear'st  thou,  O  of  little  faith, 
What  to  thee  the  mountain  saith, 
What  is  whispered  by  the  trees  ?  — 
"  Cast  on  God  thy  care  for  these  ; 
Trust  Him,  if  thy  sight  be  dim  : 
Doubt  for  them  is  doubt  of  Him. 

"  Blind  must  be  their  close-shut  eyes 
Where  like  night  the  sunshine  lies, 
Fiery-linked  the  self-forged  chain 
Binding  ever  sin  to  pain, 
Strong  their  prison-house  of  will, 
But  without  He  waiteth  still. 

"  Not  with  hatred's  undertow 
Doth  the  Love  Eternal  flow  ; 
Every  chain  that  spirits  wear 
Crumbles  in  the  breath  of  prayer  ; 
And  the  penitent's  desire 
Opens  every  gate  of  fire. 

"  Still  Thy  love,  0  Christ  arisen, 
Yearns  to  reach  these  souls  in  prison  ! 
Through  all  depths  of  sin  and  loss 
Drops  the  plummet  of  Thy  cross  ! 
Never  yet  abyss  was  found 
Deeper  than  that  cross  could  soun  I  ! " 

Therefore  well  may  Nature  keep 
Equal  faith  with  all  who  sleep, 
Set  her  watch  of  hills  around 
Christian  grave  and  heathen  mound, 
And  to  cairn  and  kirkyard  send 
Summer's  flowery  dividend. 

Keep,  O  pleasant  Melvin  stream, 

Thy  sweet  laugh  in  shade  and  gleam  ! 

On  the  Indian's  grassy  tomb 

Swing,  O  flowers,  your  bells  of  bloom  ! 

Deep  below,  as  high  above, 

Sweeps  the  circle  of  God's  love. 


He  paused  and  questioned  with  his  eye 

The  hearers'  verdict  on  his  srvg. 
A  low  voice  asked  :  "  Is 't  well  to  pry 

Into  the  secrets  which  belong 
Only  to  God  ?  —  The  life  to  be 
Is  still  the  unguessed  mystery  : 
Unsealed,  unpierced  the  cloudy  walls  re 
main  , 

We  beat  with  dream  and  wish  the  soundless 
doors  in  vain. 


THE   TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


249 


"  But  faith  beyond  our  sight  may  go." 
He  said  ,  "  The  gracious  Fatherhood 
Can  only  know  above,  below, 
Eternal  purposes  of  good. 
From  our  free  heritage  of  will. 
The  bitter  springs  of  pain  and  ill 
Flow  only  in  all  worlds.  The  perfect  day 
Of  God   is    shadowless,  and    love  is   love 
alwa}r." 

"I  know,"  she  said,  "  the  letter  kills  ; 

That  on  our  arid  fields  of  strife 
And  heat  of  clashing  texts  distils 

The  dew  of  spirit  and  of  life. 
But,  searching  still  the  written  Word, 
I  fain  would  find,  Thus  saith  the  Lord, 
A.  voucher  for  the  hope  I  also  feel 
That  sin  can  give  no  wound  beyond  love's 
power  to  heal." 

"Pray,"  said  the  Man  of  Books,  "give  o'er 

A  theme  too  vast  for  time  and  place. 
Go  on,  Sir  Poet,  ride  once  more 

Your  hobby  at  his  old  free  pace. 
But  let  him  keep,  with  step  discreet, 
The  solid  earth  beneath  his  feet. 
hi  the  great  mystery  which  around  us  lies, 
The  wisest  is  a  fool,  the  fool  Heaven-helped 
is  wise." 

The    Traveller    said  ;    "  If   songs   have 

creeds, 

Their  choice  of  them  let  singers  make  ; 
But  Art  no  other  sanction  needs 

Than  beauty  for  its  own  fair  sake. 
It  grinds  not  in  the  mill  of  use, 
Nor  asks  for  leave,  nor  begs  excuse  ; 
It  makes  the  flexile  laws  it  deigns  to  own, 
And  gives  its  atmosphere  its  color  and  its 
tone. 

"  Confess,  old  friend,  your  austere  school 

Has  left  your  fancy  little  chance  ; 
You  square  to  reason's  rigid  rule 

The  flowing  outlines  of  romance. 
With  conscience  keen  from  exercise, 
And  chronic  fear  of  compromise, 
You  check  the   free  play  of  your  rhymes, 

to  clap 

A.  moral  underneath,  and    spring  it  like  a 
trap." 

The  sweet  voice  answered  :  "  Better  so 
Than    bolder    flights  that   know    no 
check  ; 


Better  to  use  the  bit,  than  throw 

The  reins  all  loose  on  fancy's  neck. 
The  liberal  range  of  Art  should  be 
The  breadth  of  Christian  liberty, 
Restrained  alone  by  challenge  and  alarm 
Where  its  charmed  footsteps  tread  the  bor 
der  land  of  harm. 

"  Beyond  the  poet's  sweet  dream  lives 

The  eternal  epic  of  the  man. 
He  wisest  is  who  only  gives, 

True  to  himself,  the  best  he  can  ; 
Who,  drifting  in  the  winds  of  praise, 
The  inward  monitor  obeys  ; 
And,  with  the  bold  ness  that  confesses  fear, 
Takes  in  the  crowded  sail,  and  lets  his  con 
science  steer. 

"  Thanks  for  the  fitting  word  he  speaks$ 
Nor  less  for  doubtful  word  unspoken, 
For  the  false  model  that  he  breaks, 

As  for  the  moulded  grace  unbroken  ; 
For  what  is  missed  and  what  remains, 
For  losses  which  are  truest  gains, 
For  reverence  conscious  of  the  Eternal  eye, 
And  truth  too  fair  to  need  the  garnish  of  a 
lie." 

Laughing,  the  Critic  bowed.     "  I  yieT.d 

The  point  without  another  word  ; 
Who  ever  yet  a  case  appealed 

Where  beauty's    judgment  had    been 

heard  ? 

And  you,  my  good  friend,  owe  to  me 
Your  warmest  thanks  for  such  a  plea, 
As  true  withal  as  sweet.     For  my  offence 
Of  cavil,  let  her  words  be  ample  recom 
pense." 

Across  the  sea  one  lighthouse  star, 

With  crimson  ray  that  came  and  went, 
Revolving  on  its  tower  afar, 

Looked  through   the   doorway  of  the 

tent. 

While  outward,  over  sand-slopes  wet, 

The  lamp  flashed  down  its  yellow  jet 

On  the  long  wash  of  waves,  with  red  and 

green 

Tangles    of    weltering   weed    through    the 
white  foam-wreaths  seen. 

"  '  Sing  while  we  may,  —  another  day 
May  bring  enough  of  sorrow  ;'  —  thus 

Our  Traveller  in  his  own  sweet  lay, 
His  Crimean  camp-song,  hints  to  PS," 


THE  TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


The  lady  said.     "  So  let  it  be  ; 
Sing  us  a  song,"  exclaimed  all  three. 
She  smiled  :  "  I  can  but  marvel  at  your 

choice 

To  hear  our  poet's  words  through  my  poor 
borrowed  voice." 


Her  window  opens  to  the  bay, 
On  glistening  light  or  misty  gray, 
And  there  at  dawn  and  set  of  day 

In  prayer  she  kneels. 

"  Dear  Lord  !  "  she  saith,  "  to  many  a  home 
From  wind  and  wave  the  wanderers  come  ; 
I  only  see  the  tossing  foam 

Of  stranger  keels. 

"  Blown  out  and  in  by  summer  gales, 
The  stately  ships,  with  crowded  sails, 
And  sailors  leaning  o'er  their  rails, 

Before  me  glide  ; 

They  come,  they  go,  but  nevermore, 
Spice-laden  from  the  Indian  shore, 
I  see  his  swift-winged  Isidore 

The  waves  divide. 

"  O  Thou  !  with  whom  the  night  is  day 
And  one  the  near  and  far  away, 
Look  out  on  yon  gray  waste,  and  say 

Where  lingers  he. 

Alive,  perchance,  on  some  lone  beach 
Or  thirsty  isle  beyond  the  reach 
Of  man,  he  hears  the  mocking  speech 

Of  wind  and  sea. 

"  O  dread  and  cruel  deep,  reveal 
The  secret  which  thy  waves  conceal, 
And,  ye  wild  sea-birds,  hither  wheel 

And  tell  your  tale. 
Let  winds  that  tossed  his  raven  hair 
A  message  from  my  lost  one  bear,  — 
Some  thought  of  me,  a  last  fond  prayer 

Or  dying  wail  I 

"  Come,  with  your  dreariest  truth  shut  out 
The  fears  that  haunt  me  round  about ; 
O  God  !  I  cannot  bear  this  doubt 

That  stifles  breath. 
The  worst  is  better  than  the  dread  ; 
Give  me  but  leave  to  mourn  my  dead 
Asleep  in  trust  and  hope,  instead 

Of  life  in  death  !  " 

It  might  have  been  the  evening  breeze 
That  whispered  in  the  garden  trees. 


It  might  have  been  the  sound  of  seas 

That  rose  and  fell  ; 
But,  with  her  heart,  if  not  her  ear, 
The  old  loved  voice  she  seemed  to  hear ; 
"  I  wait  to  meet  thee  :  be  of  cheer, 

For  all  is  well  !  " 


The  sweet  voice  into  silence  went, 
A  silence  which  was  almost  pain 
As  through  it  rolled  the  long  lament., 
The  cadence  of  the  mournful  main. 
Glancing  his  written  pages  o'er, 
The  Reader  tried  his  part  once  more  ; 
Leaving  the  land  of  hackmatack  and  pine 
For  Tuscan  valleys  glad  with  olive  and  with 
vine. 


THE   BROTHER   OF   MERCY 
[Suggested  by  reading  C.  E.  Norton's  account  J 

PIERO  LUCA,  known  of  all  the  town 
As  the  gray  porter  by  the  Pitti  wall 
Where  the  noon  shadows  of  the  gardens 

fall, 

Sick  and  in  dolor,  waited  to  lay  down 
His  last  sad  burden,  and  beside  his  mat 
The  barefoot  monk  of  La  Certosa  sat. 

Unseen,  in  square  and  blossoming  garden 

drifted. 
Soft  sunset   lights  through   green  Val  d' 

Arno  sifted  ; 

Unheard,  below  the  living  shuttles  shifted 
Backward  and  forth,  and  wove,  in  love  or 

strife, 

In  mirth  or  pain,  the  mottled  web  of  life  : 
But  when  at  last  came   upward  from  the 

street 

Tinkle  of  bell  and  tread  of  measured  feet, 
The   sick    man  started,  strove  to   rise  in 

vain, 

Sinking  back  heavily  with  a  moan  of  pain. 
And  the  monk  said,  "  'T  is  but  the  Brother 
hood 

Of  Mercy  going  on  some  errand  good  : 
Their  black  masks  by  the  palace- wall  I  see." 
Piero  answered  faintly,  "  Woe  is  me  ! 
This  day  for  the  first  time  in  forty  years 
In  vain  the  bell  hath  sounded  in  my  ears, 
Calling  me  with  my  brethren  of  the  mask, 
ar  and  prince  alike,  to  some  new  task 


THE  CHANGELING 


Of  love  or  pity,  —  haply  from  the  street 
To  bear  a  wretch  plague-stricken,  or,  with 

feet 
Hushed  to  the  quickened  ear  and  feverish 

brain, 

To  tread  the  crowded  lazaretto's  floors, 
Down  the  long  twilight  of  the  corridors, 
Midst  tossing  arms  and  faces  full  of  pain. 
I  loved  the  work  :  it  was  its  own  reward. 
I  never  counted  on  it  to  offset 
My  sins,  which  are  many,  or  make  less  my 

debt 

To  the  free  grace  and  mercy  of  our  Lord  ; 
But  somehow,  father,  it  has  come  to  be 
In  these  long  years  so  much  a  part  of  me, 
I  should  not  know  myself,  if  lacking  it, 
But  with  the  work  the  worker  too  would  die, 
And  in  my  place  some  other  self  would  sit 
Joyful  or  sad,  —  what  matters,  if  not  I  ? 
And  now  all 's  over.     Woe  is  me  !  "  —  "  My 

son," 
The  monk  said  soothingly,  "  thy  work  is 

done  ; 

And  no  more  as  a  servant,  but  the  guest 
Of  God  thou  enterest  thy  eternal  rest. 
No  toil,  no  tears,  no  sorrow  for  the  lost, 
Shall  mar  thy  perfect  bliss.     Thou  shalt  sit 

down 
Clad   in  white  robes,  and  wear  a  golden 

crown 

Forever  and  forever."  —  Piero  tossed 
On  his  sick-pillow  :  "  Miserable  me  ! 
I  am  too  poor  for  such  grand  company  ; 
The  crown  would  be  too  heavy  for  this  gray 
Old  head  ;  and  God  forgive  me  if  I  say 
It  would  be  hard  to  sit  there  night  and  day, 
Like  an  image  in  the  Tribune,  doing  naught 
With  these  hard  hands,  that  all  my  life  have 

wrought, 

Not  for  bread  only,  but  for  pity's  sake. 
I  'm  dull   at   prayers  :    I    could   not   keep 

awake, 
Counting  my  beads.     Mine  's  but  a  crazy 

head, 

Scarce  worth  the  saving,  if  all  else  be  dead. 
And  if  one  goes  to  heaven  without  a  heart, 
God  knows  he  leaves  behind  his  better  part. 
I  love  my  fellow-men  :  the  worst  I  know 
I  would  do  good  to.     Will  death  change 

me  so 

That  I  shall  sit  among  the  lazy  saints, 
Turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  sore  complaints 
Of  souls  that  suffer  ?     Why,  I  never  yet 
Left  a  poor  dog  in  the  strada  hard  beset, 
Or  ass  o'erladen  !     Must  I  rate  man  less 


Than  dog  or  ass,  in  holy  selfishness  ? 

Methinks  (Lord,  pardon,  if  the  thought  be 
sin  !) 

The  world  of  pain  were  better,  if  therein 

One's  heart  might  still  be  human,  and  de 
sires 

Of  natural  pity  drop  upon  its  fires 

Some  cooling  tears." 

Thereat  the  pale  monk  crossed 

His  brow,  and  muttering,  "  Madman  !  thou 
art  lost  !  " 

Took  up  his  pyx  and  fled  ;  and,  left  alone, 

The  sick  man  closed  his  eyes  with  a  great 
groan 

That  sank   into  a  prayer,   "  Thy  will   be 
done  !  " 

Then  was  he  made  aware,  by  soul  or  ear, 
Of  somewhat  pure  and  holy  bending  o'er 

him, 
And  of  a  voice  like  that  of  her  who  bore 

him, 
Tender  and  most  compassionate  :  "  Never 

fear! 

For  heaven  is  love,  as  God  himself  is  love  ; 
Thy  work  below  shall  be  thy  work  above." 
And  when  he  looked,  lo!  in  the  stern 

monk's  place 
He  saw  the  shining  of  an  angel's  face  ! 


The  Traveller  broke  the  pause.    "  I  've  seen 
The  Brothers  down  the  long  street  steal, 
Black,  silent,  masked,  the  crowd  between, 

And  felt  to  doff  my  hat  and  kneel 
With  heart,  if  not  with  knee,  in  prayer, 
For  blessings  on  their  pious  care." 
The  Reader  wiped  his  glasses  :    "  Friends 

of  mine, 
We  '11  try  our  home-brewed  next,  instead 

of  foreign  wine." 


THE  CHANGELING 

FOR  the  fairest  maid  in  Hampton 
They  needed  not  to  search, 

Who  saw  young  Anna  Favor 
Come  walking  into  church,  — 

Or  bringing  from  the  meadows, 

At  set  of  harvest-day, 
The  frolic  of  the  blackbirds, 

The  sweetness  of  the  hay. 


252 


THE  TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


Now  the  weariest  of  all  mothers, 
The  saddest  two  years'  bride, 

She  scowls  in  the  face  of  her  husband, 
And  spurns  her  child  aside. 

"  Rake  out  the  red  coals,  goodman,  — 

For  there  the  child  shall  lie. 
Till  the  black  witch  comes  to  fetch  her 

And  both  up  chimney  ily. 

"  It 's  never  my  own  little  daughter, 
It 's  never  my  own,"  she  said  ; 

*'  The  witches  have  stolen  my  Anna, 
And  left  me  an  imp  instead. 

"  Oh,  fair  and  sweet  was  my  baby, 

Blue  eyes,  and  hair  of  gold  ; 
But  this  is  ugly  and  wrinkled, 

Cross,  and  cunning,  and  old. 

«*  I  hate  the  touch  of  her  fingers, 

I  hate  the  feel  of  her  skin  ; 
It 's  not  the  milk  from  my  bosom, 

But  my  blood,  that  she  sucks  in. 

"  My  face  grows  sharp  with  the  torment  ; 

Look  !  my  arms  are  skin  and  bone  ! 
Rake  open  the  red  coals,  good  man, 

And  the  witch  shall  have  her  own. 

"  She  '11  come  when  she  hears  it  cryirg, 
In  the  shape  of  an  owl  or  bat, 

And  she  '11  bring  us  our  darling  Anna 
In  place  of  her  screeching  brat." 

Then  the  good  man,  Ezra  Dalton, 
Laid  his  hand  upon  her  head  : 

"  Thy  sorrow  is  great,  O  woman  !  . 
I  sorrow  with  tliee,"  he  said. 

KThe  paths  to  trouble  are  many, 

And  never  but  one  sure  way 
Leads  out  to  the  light  beyond  it  : 

My  poor  wife,  let  us  pray." 

Then  he  said  to  the  great  All-Father, 
"  Thy  daughter  is  weak  and  blind  ; 

Let  her  sight  come  back,  and  clothe  her 
Once  more  in  her  right  mind. 

"  Lead  her  out  of  this  evil  shadow, 

Out  of  these  fancies  wild  ; 
Let  the  holy  love  of  the  mother 

Turn  again  to  her  child. 


"  Make  her  lips  like  the  lips  of  Mary 

Kissing  her  blessed  Son  ; 
Let  her  hands,  like  the  hands  of  Jesus, 

Rest  on  her  little  one. 

"  Comfort  the  soul  of  thy  handmaid, 

Open  her  prison-door, 
And  thine  shall  be  all  the  glory 

And  praise  forevermore." 

Then  into  the  face  of  its  mother 
The  baby  looked  up  and  smiled  ; 

And  the  cloud  of  her  soul  was  lifted; 
And  she  knew  her  little  child. 

A  beam  of  the  slant  west  sunshine 
Made  the  wan  face  almost  fair, 

Lit  the  blue  eyes'  patient  wonder 
And  the  rings  of  pale  gold  hair. 

She  kissed  it  on  lip  and  forehead, 
She  kissed  it  on  cheek  and  chin, 

And  she  bared  her  snow-white  bosom 
To  the  lips  so  pale  and  thin. 

Oh,  fair  on  her  bridal  morning 

Was  the  maid  who  blushed  and  smiled, 
But  fairer  to  Ezra  Dalton 

Looked  the  mother  of  his  child. 

With  more  than  a  lover's  fondness 
He  stooped  to  her  worn  young  face, 

And  the  nursing  child  and  the  mother 
He  folded  in  one  embrace. 

"  Blessed  be  God  !  "  he  murmured. 

"  Blessed  be  God  ! "  she  said  ; 
"  For  I  see,  who  once  was  blinded,  — 

I  live,  who  once  was  dead. 

"  Now  mount  and  ride,  my  goodman, 
As  thou  lovest  thy  own  soul  ! 

Woe  's  me,  if  my  wicked  fancies 
Be  the  death  of  Goody  Cole  !  " 

His  horse  he  saddled  and  bridled, 

And  into  the  night  rode  he, 
Now  through  the  great  black  woodland, 

Now  by  the  white-beached  sea. 

He  rode  through  the  silent  clearings, 

He  came  to  the  ferry  wide, 
And  thrice  he  called  to  the  boatman 

Asleep  on  the  other  side. 


THE   MAIDS   OF   ATTITASH 


253 


He  set  his  horse  to  the  river, 
He  swam  to  Newbury  town, 

And  he  called  up  Justice  Sewall 
In  his  nightcap  and  his  gown. 

And  the  grave  and  worshipful  justice 
(Upon  whose  soul  be  peace  !) 

Set  his  name  to  the  jailer's  warrant 
For  Goodwife  Cole's  release. 

Then  through  the  night  the  hoof-beats 
Went  sounding  like  a  flail  ; 

And  Goody  Cole  at  cockcrow 
Came  forth  from  Ipswich  jail. 


"  Here  is  a  rhyme  :  I  hardly  dare 

To  venture  on  its  theme  worn  out  ; 
What  seems  so  sweet  by  Doon  and  Ayr 

Sounds  simply  silly  hereabout  ; 
And  pipes  by  lips  Arcadian  blown 
Are  only  tin  horns  at  our  own. 
Vfet  still  the  muse  of  pastoral  walks  with 

us, 

While  Hosea  Biglow  sings,  our  new  Theoc 
ritus." 

THE   MAIDS   OF  ATTITASH 

Attitash,  an  Indian  word  signifying1 "  huckle 
berry,"  is  the  name  of  a  large  and  beautiful 
lake  in  the  northern  part  of  Amesbury.  [In  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Fields,  Whittier  wrote  :  "' I  should 
like  to  show  thee  Attitash,  as  it  is  as  pretty 
as  St.  Mary's  Lake  which  Wordsworth  sings, 
in  fact  a  great  deal  prettier.  The  glimpse  of 
the  Pawtuckaway  range  of  mountains  in  Not 
tingham  seen  across  it  is  very  fine,  and  it  has 
noble  groves  of  pines  and  maples  and  ash 
trees."] 

IN  sky  and  wave  the  white  clouds  swam, 
And  the  blue  hills  of  Nottingham 

Through  gaps  of  leafy  green 

Across  the  lake  were  seen, 

When,  in  the  shadow  of  the  ash 
That  dreams  its  dream  in  Attitash, 

In  the  warm  summer  weather, 

Two  maidens  sat  together. 

They  sat  and  watched  in  idle  mood 
The  gleam  and  shade  of  lake  and  wood  ; 

The  beach  the  keen  light  smote, 

The  white  sail  of  a  boat ; 


Swan  flocks  of  lilies  shoreward  lying, 
In  sweetness,  not  in  music,  dying  ; 
Hardback,  and  virgin's-bower, 
And  white-spiked  clethra-flower. 

With  careless  ears  they  heard  the  plash 
And  breezy  wash  of  Attitash, 

The  wood-bird's  plaintive  cry, 

The  locust's  sharp  reply. 

And  teased  the  while,  with  playful  hand, 
The  shaggy  dog  of  Newfoundland, 

Whose  uncouth  frolic  spilled 

Their  baskets  berry-filled. 

Then  one,  the  beauty  of  whose  eyes 
Was  evermore  a  great  surprise, 

Tossed  back  her  queenly  head, 

And  lightly  laughing,  said  : 

"  No  bridegroom's  hand  be  mine  to  hold 
That  is  not  lined  with  yellow  gold  ; 

I  tread  no  cottage-floor  ; 

I  own  no  lover  poor. 

"  My  love  must  come  on  silken  wings, 
With  bridal  lights  of  diamond  rings, 

Not  foul  with  kitchen  smirch, 

With  tallow-dip  for  torch." 

The  other,  on  whose  modest  head 
Was  lesser  dower  of  beauty  shed, 

With  look  for  home-hearths  meet, 

And  voice  exceeding  sweet, 

Answered,  "  We  will  not  rivals  be  ; 

Take  thou  the  gold,  leave  love  to  me  ; 
Mine  be  the  cottage  small, 
And  thine  the  rich  man's  hall. 

"  I  know,  indeed,  that  wealth  is  good  ; 

But  lowly  roof  and  simple  food, 
With  love  that  hath  no  doubt, 
Are  more  than  gold  without." 

Hard  by  a  farmer  hale  and  young 
His  cradle  in  the  rye-field  swung, 
Tracking  the  yellow  plain 
With  windrows  of  ripe  grain. 

And  still,  whene'er  he  paused  to  whet 
His  scythe,  the  sidelong  glance  he  met 

Of  large  dark  eyes,  where  strove 

False  pride  and  secret  love. 


254 


THE  TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


Be  strong,  young  mower  of  the  grain  ; 
That  love  shall  overmatch  disdain, 

Its  instincts  soon  or  late 

The  heart  shall  vindicate. 

In  blouse  of  gray,  with  fishing-rod, 
Half  screened  by  leaves,  a  stranger  trod 

The  margin  of  the  pond, 

Watching  the  group  beyond. 

The  supreme  hours  unnoted  come  ; 

Unfelt  the  turning  tides  of  doom  ; 
And  so  the  maids  laughed  on, 
Nor  dreamed  what  Fate  had  done,  — 

Nor  knew  the  step  was  Destiny's 
That  rustled  in  the  birchen  trees, 

As,  with  their  lives  forecast, 

Fisher  and  mower  passed. 

Erelong  by  lake  and  rivulet  side 
The  summer  roses  paled  and  died, 

And  Autumn's  fingers  shed 

The  maple's  leaves  of  red. 

Through  the  long  gold-hazed  afternoon, 
Alone,  but  for  the  diving  loon, 

The  partridge  in  the  brake, 

The  black  duck  on  the  lake, 

Beneath  the  shadow  of  the  ash 
Sat  man  and  maid  by  Attitash  ; 

And  earth  and  air  made  room 

For  human  hearts  to  bloom. 

Soft  spread  the  carpets  of  the  sod, 
And  scarlet-oak  and  golden-rod 

With  blushes  and  with  smiles 

Lit  up  the  forest  aisles. 

The  mellow  light  the  lake  aslant, 
The  pebbled  margin's  ripple-chant 

Attempered  and  low-toned, 

The  tender  mystery  owned. 

And  through  the  dream  the  lovers  dreamed 
Sweet  sounds  stole  in  and  soft  lights 
streamed  ; 

The  sunshine  seemed  to  bless, 

The  air  was  a  caress. 

Not  she  who  lightly  laughed  is  there, 
With  scornful  toss  of  midnight  hair, 

Her  dark,  disdainful  eyes, 

And  proud  lip  worldly-wise. 


Her  haughty  vow  is  still  unsaid, 
But  all  she  dreamed  and  coveted 
Wears,  half  to  her  surprise, 
The  youthful  farmer's  guise  ! 

With  more  than  all  her  old-time  pride 
She  walks  the  rye-field  at  his  side, 

Careless  of  cot  or  hall, 

Since  love  transfigures  all. 

Rich  beyond  dreams,  the  vantage-ground 
Of  life  is  gained  ;  her  hands  have  found 

The  talisman  of  old 

That  changes  all  to  gold. 

While  she  who  could  for  love  dispense 
With  all  its  glittering  accidents, 
And  trust  her  heart  alone, 
Finds  love  and  gold  her  own. 

What  wealth  can  buy  or  art  can  build 
Awaits  her  ;  but  her  cup  is  filled 

Even  now  unto  the  brim  ; 

Her  world  is  love  and  him  ! 


The  while  he  heard,  the  Book-man  drew 

A  length  of  make-believing  face, 
With      smothered      mischief      laughing 

through  : 

"  Why,  you  shall  sit  in  Ramsay's  place 
And,  with  his  Gentle  Shepherd,  keep 
On  Yankee  hills  immortal  sheep, 
While  love-lorn  swains  and  maids  the  seas 

beyond 

Hold  dreamy   tryst  around   your   huckle 
berry-pond." 

The  Traveller  laughed  :  "  Sir  Galahad 
Singing  of  love  the  Trouvere's  lay  ! 
How  should  he  know  the  blindfold  lad 
From  one  of  Vulcan's  forge-boys  ?  "  — 

"  Nay, 

He  better  sees  who  stands  outside 
Than  they  who  in  procession  ride," 
The    Reader   answered  :    "  selectmen   and 

squire 

Miss,  while  they  make,  the  show  that  way 
side  folks  admire. 

"  Here  is  a  wild  tale  of  the  North, 
Our  travelled  friend  will  own  as  one 

Fit  for  a  Norland  Christmas  hearth 
And  lips  of  Christian  Andersen. 


KALLUNDBORG   CHURCH 


They  tell  it  in  the  valleys  green 
Of  the  fair  island  he  has  seen, 
Low  lying  off  the  pleasant  Swedish  shore, 
Washed  by  the  Baltic  Sea,  and  watched  by 
Elsinore." 


KALLUNDBORG  CHURCH 

"  Tie  stille,  barn  min  ! 
Imorgen  kommer  Fin, 
Fa'er  din, 

Og  gi'er  dig  Esbern  Snares  oine  oghjerte  at  lege  med  !  " 

Zealand  Rhyme. 

"  BUILD  at  Kallundborg  by  the  sea 
A  church  as  stately  as  church  may  be, 
And   there  shalt   thou  wed    my  daughter 

fair/' 
Said  the  Lord  of  Nesvek  to  Esbern  Snare. 

And  the  Baron  laughed.     But  Esbern  said, 
"  Though  I  lose  my  soul,  I  will  Helva  wed  !  " 
And  oft'  he  strode,  in  his  pride  of  will, 
To  the  Troll  who  dwelt  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

«  Build,  O  Troll,  a  church  for  me 
At  Kallundborg  by  the  mighty  sea  ; 
Bnild  it  stately,  and  build  it  fair, 
Build  it  quickly,"  said  Esbern  Snare. 

But   the   sly    Dwarf   said,    "No   work   is 

wrought 

By  Trolls  of  the  Hills,  O  man,  for  naught. 
What  wilt  thou  give  for  thy  church  so  fair  ?  " 
"  Set  thy  own  price,"  quoth  Esbern  Snare. 

"  When  Kallundborg  church  is  builded  well, 
Thou  must  the  name  of  its  builder  tell, 
Or  thy  heart  and  thy  eyes    must  be  my 

boon." 
"Build,"  said  Esbern,  "  and  build  it  soon." 

By  night  and   by  day  the  Troll  wrought 

on  ; 

He  hewed  the  timbers,  he  piled  the  stone  ; 
But  day  by  day,  as  the  walls  rose  fair, 
Darker  and  sadder  grew  Esbern  Snare. 

He  listened  by  night,  he  watched  by  day, 
He  sought  and  thought,  but  he  dared  not 

pray  ; 

in  vain  he  called  on  the  Elle-maids  shy, 
And  the  Neck  and  the  Nis  gave  no  reply 

Of  his  evil  bargain  far  and  wide 

A  rumor  ran  through  the  country-sida  ; 


And  Helva  of  Nesvek,  young  and  fair, 
Prayed  for  the  soul  of  Esbern  Snare. 

And  now  the  church  was  welliiigh  done  ; 

One  pillar  it  lacked,  and  one  alone  ; 

And  the  grim  Troll  muttered,  "Eool   thou 

art  ! 
To-morrow  gives  me  thy  eyes  and  heart !  " 

By  Kallundborg  in  black  despair, 
Through  wood  and  meadow,  walked  Esbern 

Snare, 
Till,    worn   and    weary,    the    strong    man 

sank 
Under  the  birches  on  Ulshoi  bank. 

At  his  last  day's  work  he  heard  the  Troll 
Hammer  and  delve  in  the  quarry's  hole  ; 
Before  him  the  church  stood  large  and 

fair  : 
"  I   have  builded   my  tomb,"  said   Esben 

Snare. 

And  he  closed  his  eyes  the  sight  to  hide, 
When  he  heard  a  light  step  at  his  side  : 
"  O  Esbern  Snare  !  "  a  sweet  voice  said, 
"  Would  I  might  die  now  in  thy  stead  1  " 

With  a  grasp  by  love  and  by  fear  made 

strong, 

He  held  her  fast,  and  he  held  her  long  ; 
With  the  beating  heart  of  a  bird  afeard, 
She  hid  her  face  in  his  flame-red  beard. 

"  O  love  !  "  he  cried,  "  let  me  look  to-day 
In  thine  eyes  ere  mine  are  plucked  away  ; 
Let  me  hold  thee  close,  let  me  feel  thy 

heart 
Ere  mine  by  the  Troll  is  torn  apart ! 

"  I  sinned,  O  Helva,  for  love  of  thee  ! 
Pray  that  the  Lord  Christ  pardon  me  ! " 
But  fast  as  she  prayed,  and  faster  still, 
Hammered  the  Troll  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

He  knew,  as  he  wrought,   that   a   loving 

heart 

Was  somehow  baffling  his  evil  art ; 
For  more  than  spell  of  Elf  or  Troll 
Is  a  maiden's  prayer  for  her  lover's  soul. 

And  Esbern  listened,  and  caught  the  sound 
Of  a  Troll-wife  singing  underground  : 
"  To-morrow  comes  Fine,  father  thine  : 
Lie  still  and  hush  thee,  baby  mine  ' 


THE  TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


"  Lie  still,  my  darling  !  next  sunrise 
Thou  'It  play  with  Esbern  Snare's  heart  and 

eyes !  " 
"  Ho  !  ho  !  "  quoth  Esbern,  "  is  that  your 

game  ? 
Thanks    to    the   Troll-wife,   I    know    his 

name  ! " 

The  Troll  he  heard  him,  and  hurried  on 
To  Kallundborg  church  with  the    lacking 

stone. 
4 Too   late,   Gaffer   Fine!"   cried  Esbern 

Snare  ; 
And  Troll  and  pillar  vanished  in  air  ! 

That  night  the  harvesters  heard  the  sound 

Of  a  woman  sobbing  underground, 

And  the  voice  of  the  Hill-Troll  loud  with 

blame 
Of  the  careless  singer  who  told  his  name. 

Of  the  Troll  of  the  Church  they  sing  the 

rune 

By  the  Northern  Sea  in  the  harvest  moon  ; 
And  the  fishers  of  Zealand  hear  him  still 
Scolding  his  wife  in  Ulshoi  hill. 

And  seaward  over  its  groves  of  birch 
Still  looks  the  tower  of  Kallundborg  church, 
Where,  first  at  its  altar,  a  wedded  pair, 
Stood  Helva  of  Nesvek  and  Esbern  Snare  ! 


"What,"  asked  the  Traveller,  "would 

our  sires, 

The  old  Norse  story-tellers,  say 
Of  sun-graved  pictures,  ocean  wires, 

And  smoking  steamboats  of  to-day  ? 
And  this,  O  lady,  by  your  leave, 
Recalls  your  song  of  yester  eve  : 
Pray,  let  us    have   that  Cable-hymn  once 

more." 

:<  Hear,  hear  !  "    the  Book-man  cried,  "  the 
lady  has  the  floor. 

"  These  noisy  waves  below  perhaps 

To  such  a  strain  will  lend  their  ear, 
With  softer  voice  and  lighter  lapse 

Come  stealing  up  the  sands  <x>  hear, 
And  what  they  once  refused  to  do 
For  old  King  Knut  accord  to  you. 
Nay,  even  the  fisbes  shall  your  listeners  be, 
As  once,  the  legend  runs,  they  heard  St. 
Anthony." 


THE  CABLE    HYMN 

O  LONELY  bay  of  Trinity, 

O  dreary  shores,  give  ear ! 
Lean  down  unto  the  white-lipped  sea 

The  voice  of  God  to  hear  ! 

From  world  to  world  His  couriers  fly, 
Thought- winged  and  shod  with  fire  ; 

The  angel  of  His  stormy  sky 
Rides  down  the  sunken  wire. 

What  saith  the  herald  of  the  Lord  ? 

"  The  world's  long  strife  is  done  ; 
Close  wedded  by  that  mystic  cord, 

Its  continents  are  one. 

"  And  one  in  heart,  as  one  in  blood, 

Shall  all  her  peoples  be  ; 
The  hands  of  human  brotherhood 

Are  clasped  beneath  the  sea. 

"  Through  Orient  seas,  o'er  Afric's  plain 

And  Asian  mountains  borne, 
The  vigor  of  the  Northern  brain 

Shall  nerve  the  world  outworn. 

"  From  clime  to  clime,  from  shore  to  shore, 
Shall  thrill  the  magic  thread  ; 

The  new  Prometheus  steals  once  more 
The  fire  that  wakes  the  dead." 

Throb  on,  strong  pulse  of  thunder  !  beat 
From  answering  beach  to  beach  ; 

Fuse  nations  in  thy  kindly  heat, 
And  melt  the  chains  of  each  ! 

Wild  terror  of  the  sky  above, 
Glide  tamed  and  dumb  below  ! 

Bear  gently,  Ocean's  carrier-dove, 
Thy  errands  to  and  fro. 

Weave  on,  swift  shuttle  of  the  Lord, 

Beneath  the  deep  so  far, 
The  bridal  robe  of  earth's  accord, 

The  funeral  shroud  of  war  ! 

For  lo  !  the  fall  of  Ocean's  wall 
Space  mocked  and  time  outrun ; 

And  round  the  world  the  thought  of  all 
Is  as  the  thought  of  one  ! 

The  poles  unite,  the  zones  agree, 
The  tongues  of  striving  cease  ; 


THE  DEAD    SHIP   OF   HARPSWELL 


25? 


As  on  the  Sea  of  Galilee 

The  Christ  is  whispering,  Peace  ! 


"  Glad  prophecy  !  to  this  at  last," 

The    Reader    said,    "  shall  all    things 

come. 
Forgotten  be  the  bugle's  blast, 

And  battle-music  of  the  drum. 
A  little  while  the  world  may  run 
Its  old  mad  way,  witli  needle-gun 
And  ironclad,  but  truth,  at  last,  shall  reign  : 
The  cradle-song  of  Christ  was  never  sung 
in  vain  !  " 

Shifting  his  scattered  papers,  "  Here," 
He  said,  as  died  the  faint  applause, 
"  Is  something  that  I  found  last  year 

Down  on  the  island  known  as  Orr's. 
I  had  it  from  a  fair-haired  girl 
Who,  oddly,  bore  the  name  of  Pearl, 
(  As  if  by  some  droll  freak  of  circumstance,) 
Classic,  or  wellnigh  so,  in  Harriet  Stowe's 
romance." 


THE   DEAD   SHIP   OF   HARPSWELL 

WHAT  flecks  the  outer  gray  beyond 

The  sundown's  golden  trail  ? 
The  white  flash  of  a  sea-bird's  wing, 

Or  gleam  of  slanting  sail  ? 
Let  young  eyes  watch  from  Neck  and  Point, 

And  sea-worn  elders  pray, — 
The  ghost  of  what  was  once  a  ship 

Is  sailing  up  the  bay  ! 

From  gray  sea-fog,  from  icy  drift, 

From  peril  and  from  pain, 
The  home-bound  fisher  greets  thy  lights, 

O  hundred-harbored  Maine  ! 
But  many  a  keel  shall  seaward  turn, 

And  many  a  sail  outstand, 
When,  tall  and  white,  the  Dead  Ship  looms 

Against  the  dusk  of  land. 

She  rounds  the  headland's  bristling  pines  ; 

She  threads  the  isle-set  bay  ; 
No  spur  of  breeze  can  speed  her  on, 

Nor  ebb  of  tide  delay. 
Old  men  still  walk  the  Isle  of  Orr 

Who  tell  her  date  and  name, 
Old  shipwrights  sit  in  Freeport  yards 

Who  hewed  her  oaken 


What  weary  doom  of  baffled  quest, 

Thou  sad  sea-ghost,  is  thine  ? 
What  makes  thee  in  the  haunts  tf  home 

A  wonder  and  a  sign  ? 
No  foot  is  on  thy  silent  deck, 

Upon  thy  helm  no  hand  ; 
No  ripple  hath  the  soundless  wind 

That  smites  thee  from  the  land  ! 

For  never  comes  the  ship  to  port, 

Howe'er  the  breeze  may  be  ; 
Just  when  she  nears  the  waiting  shore 

She  drifts  again  to  sea. 
No  tack  of  sail,  nor  turn  of  helm, 

Nor  sheer  of  veering  side  ; 
Stern-fore  she  drives  to  sea  and  night, 

Against  the  wind  and  tide. 

In  vain  o'er  Harpswell  Neck  the  star 

Of  evening  guides  her  in  ; 
In  vain  for  her  the  lamps  are  lit 

Within  thy  tower,  Seguin  ! 
In  vain  the  harbor-boat  shall  hail, 

In  vain  the  pilot  call  ; 
No  hand  shall  reef  her  spectral  sail, 

Or  let  her  anchor  fall. 

Shake,  brown  old  wives,  with  dreary  joy. 

Your  gray-head  hints  of  ill  ; 
And,  over  sick-beds  whispering  low, 

Your  prophecies  fulfil. 
Some  home  amid  yon  birchen  trees 

Shall  drape  its  door  with  woe  ; 
And  slowly  where  the  Dead  Ship  sails, 

The  burial  boat  shall  row  ! 

From  Wolf  Neck  and  from  Flying  Point 

From  island  and  from  main, 
From  sheltered  cove  and  tided  creek, 

Shall  glide  the  funeral  train. 
The  dead-boat  with  the  bearers  four, 

The  mourners  at  her  stern,  — 
And  one  shall  go  the  silent  way 

Who  shall  no  more  return  ! 

And  men  shall  sigh,  and  women  weep, 

Whose  dear  ones  pale  and  pine, 
And  sadly  over  sunset  seas 

Await  the  ghostly  sign. 
They  know  not  that  its  sails  are  filled 

By  pity's  tender  breath, 
Nor  see  the  Angel  at  the  helm 

Who  steers  the  Ship  of  Death  ' 


THE  TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


"  Chill  as  a  down-east  breeze  should  be," 
The  Book-man  said.     "  A  ghostly  touch 
The  legend  has.     I  'm  glad  to  see 

Your  Hying  Yankee  beat  the  Dutch." 
"  Well,  here  is  something  of  t  he  sort 

Which  one  midsummer  day  I  caught 
In  Narragansett  Bay,  for  lack  of  fish." 
**  We    wait,"   the    Traveller   said;   "serve 
hot  or  cold  your  dish." 


THE  PALATINE 

Blu.3k  Island  in  Long-  Island  Sound,  called 
by  the  Indians  Manisees,  the  isle  of  the  little 
god,  was  the  scene  of  a  tragic  incident  a  hun 
dred  years  or  more  ago,  when  The  Palatine,  an 
emigrant  ship  bound  for  Philadelphia,  driven 
off  its  course,  came  upon  the  coast  at  this  point. 
A  mutiny  on  board,  followed  by  an  inhuman 
desertion  on  the  part  of  the  crew,  had  brought 
the  unhappy  passengers  to  the  verge  of  starva 
tion  and  madness.  Tradition  says  that  wreck 
ers  on  shore,  after  rescuing  all  but  one  of  the 
survivors,  set  fire  to  the  vessel,  which  was  driven 
out  to  sea  before  a  gale  which  had  sprung  up. 
Every  twelvemonth,  according  to  the  same  tradi 
tion,  the  spectacle  of  a  ship  on  fire  is  visible  to 
the  inhabitants  of  the  island. 

LEAGUES  north,  as  fly  the  gull  and  auk, 
Point  Judith  watches  with  eye  of  hawk  ; 
Leagues   south,  thy    beacon    flames,  Mon- 
tauk  ! 

Lonely  and  wind-shorn,  wood-forsaken, 
With  never  a  tree  for  Spring  to  waken, 
For  tryst  of  lovers  or  farewells  taken, 

Circled  by  waters  that  never  freeze, 
Beaten  by  billow  and  swept  by  breeze, 
Lieth  the  island  of  Manisees, 

Set  at  the  mouth  of  the  Sound  to  hold 
The  coast  lights  up  on  its  turret  old, 
Yellow  with  moss  and  sea-fog  mould. 

Dreary  the  land  when  gust  and  sleet 
At  its  doors  and  windows  howl  and  beat, 
And  Winter  laughs  at  its  fires  of  peat  ! 

But    in    summer    time,    when    pool    and 

pond, 

Held  in  the  laps  of  valleys  fond, 
Are  blue  as  the  glimpses  of  sea  beyond  ; 


When  the  hills  are  sweet  with  the  brier« 

rose, 

And,  hid  in  the  warm,  soft  dells,  unclose 
Flowers  the  mainland  rarely  knows  ; 

When  boats  to  their  morning  fishing  go, 
And,  held  to  the  wind  and  slanting  low, 
Whitening  and   darkening  the  small  sails 
show,  — 

Then  is  that  lonely  island  fair  ; 

And  the  pale  health-seeker  findeth  there 

The  wine  of  life  in  its  pleasant  air. 

No  greener  valleys  the  sun  invite, 
On  smoother  beaches  no  sea-birds  light, 
No    blue     waves    shatter    to    foam   more 
white  ( 

There,  circling  ever  their  narrow  range, 

Quaint  tradition  and  jfegend  strange 

Live  on  unchallenged,  and  know  no  change. 

Old  wives  spinning  their  webs  of  tow, 

Or  rocking  weirdly  to  and  fro 

In  and  out  of  the  peat's  dull  glow, 

And  old  men  mending  their  nets  of  twine, 
Talk  together  of  dream  and  sign, 
Talk  of  the  lost  ship  Palatine,  — 

The  ship  that,  a  hundred  years  before, 
Freighted  deep  with  its  goodly  store, 
In  the  gales  of  the  equinox  went  ashore. 

The  eager  islanders  one  by  one 
Counted  the  shots  of  her  signal  gun, 
And  heard  the  crash  when  she  drove  right 
on  ! 

Into  the  teeth  of  death  she  sped  : 
(May  God  forgive  the  liRtids  that  fed 
The  false  lights  over  the  rocky  Head  !) 

O    men    and    brothers  !  what   sights  were 

there  ! 
White  upturned  faces,  hands  stretched  in 

prayer  ! 
Where  waves  had  pity,  could  ye  not  spare  ? 

Down  swooped  the  wreckers,  like  birds  of 

prey 

Tearing  the  heart  of  the  ship  away, 
And  the  dead  had  never  a  word  to  say- 


ABRAHAM   DAVENPORT 


259 


And    then,    with    ghastly    shimmer     and 

shine 

Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
They  burned  the  wreck  of  the  Palatine. 

In  their  cruel  hearts,   as  they   homeward 

sped, 
"  The  sea  and  the  rocks  are  dumb,"  they 

said : 
"  There  '11  be  no  reckoning  with  the  dead." 

But  the  year  went  round,  and  when  once 

more 

Along  their  foam-white  curves  of  shore 
They  heard  the  line-storm  rave  and  roar, 

Behold  !  again,  with  shimmer  and  shine, 
Over  the  rocks  and  the  seething  brine, 
The  flaming  wreck  of  the  Palatine  ! 

So,  haply  in  fitter  words  than  these, 
Mending  their  nets  on  their  patient  knees, 
They  tell  the  legend  of  Manisees. 

Nor  looks  nor  tones  a  doubt  betray  ; 

"  It    is   known    to   us    all,"    they    quietly 

say  ; 
"  We  too  have  seen  it  in  our  day." 

Is  there,  then,  no  death  for  a  word  once 

spoken  ? 

Was  never  a  deed  but  left  its  token 
Written  on  tables  never  broken  ? 

Do  the  elements  subtle  reflections  give  ? 
Do  pictures  of  all  the  ages  live 
On  Nature's  infinite  negative, 

Which,  half  in  sport,  in  malice  half, 

She    shows    at    times,    with    shudder    or 

laugh, 
Phantom  and  shadow  in  photograph  ? 

For  still,  on  many  a  moonless  night, 
From  Kingston  Head  and  from  Montauk 

light 
The  spectre  kindles  and  burns  in  sight. 

Now  low  and  dim,  now  clear  and  higher, 
Leaps  up  the  terrible  Ghost  of  Fire, 
Then,  slowly  sinking,  the  flames  expire. 

Ard  the  wise  Sound  skippers,  though  skies 
be  fine, 


Reef  their  sails  when  they  see  the  sign 
Of  the  blazing  wreck  of  the  Palatine  ! 


"  A  fitter  tale  to  scream  than  sing," 
The  Book-man   said.     "  Well,  fanc\, 

then," 
The  Reader  answered,  "  on  the  wing 

The  sea-birds  shriek  it,  not  for  men, 
But  in  the  ear  of  wave  and  breeze  !  " 
The  Traveller  mused  :  "  Your  Manisees 
Is  fairy-laud  :  off  Narragansett  shore 
Who  ever  saw  the  isle  or  heard  its  name 
before  ? 

"  'T  is  some  strange  land  of  Flyaway, 

Whose  dreamy  shore  the  ship  beguiles, 
St.  Brandan's  in  its  sea-mist  gray, 

Or  sunset  loom  of  Fortunate  Isles  ! " 
"No  ghost,  but  solid  turf  and  rock 
Is  the  good  island  known  as  Block," 
The    Reader  said.     "  For  beauty  and   for 

ease 

I  chose  its  Indian  name,  soft-flowing  Mani 
sees  ! 

"  But  let  it  pass  ;  here  is  a  bit 

Of  unrhymed  story,  with  a  hint 
Of  the  old  preaching  mood  in  it, 

The  sort  of  sidelong  moral  squint 
Our  friend  objects  to,  which  has  grown, 
I  fear,  a  habit  of  my  own. 
'T  was  written  when  the  Asian  plague  dre\v 

near, 

And  the  land  held  its   breath   and  paled 
with  sudden  fear." 


ABRAHAM   DAVENPORT 

The  famous  Dark  Day  of  New  England,  May 
19,  1780,  was  a  physical  puzzle  for  many  years 
to  our  ancestors,  but  its  occurrence  brought 
something  more  than  philosophical  speculation 
into  the  minds  of  those  who  passed  through  it. 
The  incident  of  Colonel  Abraham  Davenport's 
sturdy  protest  is  a  matter  of  history. 

IN  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside 
With  breeches  and  cocked  hats)  the  people 

sent 

Their  wisest  men  to  make  the  public  laws. 
And  so,  from  a  brown  homestead,  where  the 

Sound 


260 


THE   TENT   ON   THE   BEACH 


Drinks  the  small  tribute  of  the  Mianas, 
Waved  over  by  the  woods  of  Rippowams, 
And   hallowed  by  pure  lives  and  tranquil 

deaths, 

Stamford  sent  up  to  the  councils  of  the  State 
Wisdom  and  grace  in  Abraham  Davenport. 

'T  was  on  a  May-day  of  the  far  old  year 
Seventeen  hundred  eighty,  that  there  fell 
Over  the  bloom  and  sweet  life  of  the  Spring, 
Over  the  fresh  earth  and  the  heaven  of  noon, 
A  horror  of  great  darkness,  like  the  night 
In  day  of  which  the  Norland  sagas  tell,  — 
Che  Twilight  of  the  Gods.     The  low-hung 

sky 
Was  black  with  ominous  clouds,  save  where 

its  rim 
Was   fringed  with  a   dull  glow,  like  that 

which  climbs 

The  crater's  sides  from  the  red  hell  below. 
Birds  ceased  to  sing,  and  all  the  barn-yard 

fowls 

Roosted  ;  the  cattle  at  the  pasture  bars 
Lowed,    and   looked    homeward  ;    bats    on 

leathern  wings 

Flitted  abroad  ;  the  sounds  of  labor  died  ; 
Men  prayed,  and  women  wept  ;  all  ears 

grew  sharp 
To   hear   the   doom -blast  of  the  trumpet 

shatter 
The  black  sky,  that  the  dreadful  face  of 

Christ 
Might  look   from  the  rent   clouds,  not  as 

he  looked 

A  loving  guest  at  Bethany,  but  stern 
As  Justice  and  inexorable  Law. 

Meanwhile  in  the  old  State  House,  dim 

as  ghosts, 

Sat  the  lawgivers  of  Connecticut, 
Trembling  beneath  their  legislative  robes. 
"  It  is  the  Lord's  Great  Day  !     Let  us  ad 
journ," 

Some  said  ;  and  then,  as  if  with  one  accord, 
All  eyes  were  turned  to  Abraham  Daven 
port. 

He  rose,  slow  cleaving  with  his  steady  voice 
The  intolerable  hush.  "  This  well  may  be 
The  Day  of  Judgment  which  the  world 

awaits  ; 

But  be  it  so  or  not,  I  only  know 
My  present  duty,  and  my  Lord's  command 
To  occupy  till  He  come.     So  at  the  post 
Where  He  hath  set  me  in  His  providence, 


I   choose,  for   one,  to  meet   Him   face  tc 

face, — 
No  faithless  servant  frightened   from  my 

task, 
But  ready  when  the  Lord  of  the  harvest 

calls  ; 
And  therefore,  with  all  reverence,  I  would 

say, 
Let   God    do   His   work,    we    will    see    to 

ours. 
Bring  in  the  candles."     And  they  brought 

them  in. 

Then  by  the  flaring  lights  the  Speaker 

read, 

Albeit  with  husky  voice  and  shaking  hands, 
An  act  to  amend  an  act  to  regulate 
The  shad  and  alewive   fisheries.     Where 
upon 

Wisely  and  well  spake  Abraham  Davenport, 
Straight  to  the  question,  with  no  figures  oi 

speech 

Save  the  ten  Arab  signs,  yet  not  without 
The  shrewd  dry  humor  natural  to  the  man  : 
His  awe-struck  colleagues  listening  all  the 

while, 

Between  the  pauses  of  his  argument, 
To  hear  the  thunder  of  the  wrath  of  God 
Break  from  the  hollow  trumpet  of  the  cloud. 

And  there  he  stands  in  memory  to  this 

day, 

Erect,  self-poised,  a  rugged  face,  half  seen 
Against  the  background  of  unnatural  dark, 
A  witness  to  the  ages  as  they  pass, 
That  simple  duty  hath  no  place  for  fear. 


He  ceased  :  just  then  the  ocean  seemed 

To  lift  a  half-faced  moon  in  sight  ; 
And,     shore  -  ward,     o'er     the     waters 

gleamed, 

From  crest  to  crest,  a  line  of  light, 
Such  as  of  old,  with  solemn  awe, 
The  fishers  by  Gennesaret  saw, 
When  dry-shod  o'er  it  walked  the  Son  of 

God, 

Tracking  the  waves  with  light  where'er  hia 
sandals  trod. 

Silently  for  a  space  each  eye 

Upon  that  sudden  glory  turned  :   • 
Cool  from  the  land  the  breeze  blew  by, 


THE  WORSHIP   OF   NATURE 


261 


The  tent-ropes  flapped,  the  long  beach 

churned 

Its  waves  to  foam  ;  on  either  hand 
Stretched,  far  as  sight,  the  hills  of  sand  ; 
With  bays  of   marsh,  and  capes  of   bush 

and  tree, 

The  wood's  black  shore-line  loomed  beyond 
the  meadowy  sea. 

The  lady  rose  to  leave.     "  One  song, 
Or   hymn,"    they  urged,    "  before  we 

part." 
And  she,  with  lips  to  which  belong 

Sweet  intuitions  of  all  art, 
Gave  to  the  winds  of  night  a  strain 
Which  they  who  heard  would  hear  again  ; 
And  to  her  voice  the  solemn  ocean  lent, 
Touching  its  harp  of  sand,  a  deep  accom 
paniment. 


THE   WORSHIP   OF   NATURE 

THE  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung 

Has  never  ceased  to  play  ; 
The  song  the  stars  of  morning  sung 

Has  never  died  away. 

And  prayer  is  made,  and  praise  is  given, 

By  all  things  near  and  far  ; 
The  ocean  looketh  up  to  heaven, 

And  mirrors  every  star. 

Its  waves  are  kneeling  on  the  strand, 

As  kneels  the  human  knee, 
Their  white  locks  bowing  to  the  sand, 

The  priesthood  of  the  sea  ! 

They  pour  their  glittering  treasures  forth, 
Their  gifts  of  pearl  they  bring, 

And  all  the  listening  hills  of  earth 
Take  up  the  song  they  sing. 

The  green  earth  sends  her  incense  up 
From  many  a  mountain  shrine  ; 

From  folded  leaf  and  dewy  cup 
She  pours  her  sacred  wine. 


The  mists  above  the  morning  rills 
Rise  white  as  wings  of  prayer  °} 

The  altar-curtains  of  the  hills 
Are  sunset's  purple  air. 

The  winds  with  hymns  of  praise  are  loud, 

Or  low  with  sobs  of  pain,  — 
The  thunder-organ  of  the  cloud, 

The  dropping  tears  of  rain. 

With  drooping  head  and  branches  crossed 

The  twilight  forest  grieves, 
Or  speaks  with  tongues  of  Pentecost 

From  all  its  sunlit  leaves. 

The  blue  sky  is  the  temple's  arch, 

Its  transept  earth  and  air, 
The  music  of  its  starry  march 

The  chorus  of  a  prayer. 

So  Nature  keeps  the  reverent  frame 

With  which  her  years  began, 
And  all  her  signs  and  voices  shame 

The  prayerless  heart  of  man. 


The  singer  ceased.  The  moon's  white  rays 

Fell  on  the  rapt,  still  face  of  her. 
"Allah  il  Allah!  He  hath  praise 

From  all  things,"  said  the  Traveller. 
"  Oft  from  the  desert's  silent  nights, 

And  mountain  hymns  of  sunset  lights, 
My  heart  has  felt  rebuke,  as  in  his  tent 
The    Moslem's    prayer    has    shamed    my 
Christian  knee  unbent." 

He  paused,  and  lo  !  far,  faint,  and  slow 

The  bells  in  Newbury's  steeples  tolled 

The  twelve  dead  hours  ;  the  lamp  burned 

low  ; 

The  singer  sought  her  canvas  fold. 
One  sadly  said,  "  At  break  of  day 
We  strike  our  tent  and  go  our  way." 
But  one  made  answer  cheerily,  "  Never  fearj 
We'll  pitch  this  tent  of  ours  in  type  au» 
other  year." 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


TO  WILLIAM   LLOYD   GARRISON 

[Read  at  the  Convention  which  formed  the 
American  Anti-Slavery  Society,  in  Philadel 
phia,  December,  1833.] 

CHAMPION  of  those  who  groan  beneath 

Oppression's  iron  hand  : 
In  view  of  penury,  hate,  and  death, 

I  see  thee  fearless  stand. 
Still  bearing  up  thy  lofty  brow, 

in  the  steadfast  strength  of  truth, 
In  manhood  sealing  well  the  vow 

A.nd  promise  of  thy  youth. 

Go  on,  for  thou  hast  chosen  well ; 

On  in  the  strength  of  God  ! 
Long  as  one  human  heart  shall  swell 

Beneath  the  tyrant's  rod. 
Speak  in  a  slumbering  nation's  ear, 

As  thou  hast  ever  spoken, 
Until  the  dead  in  sin  shall  hear, 

The  fetter's  link  be  broken  ! 

I  love  thee  with  a  brother's  love, 

I  feel  my  pulses  thrill, 
To  mark  thy  spirit  soar  above 

The  cloud  of  human  ill. 
My  heart  hath  leaped  to  answer  thine, 

And  echo  back  thy  words, 
As  leaps  the  warrior's  at  the  shine 

And  flash  of  kindred  swords  ! 

They  tell  me  thou  art  rash  and  vain, 

A  searcher  after  fame  ; 
That  thou  art  striving  but  to  gain 

A  long-enduring  name  ; 
That  thou  hast  nerved  the  Afric's  hand 

And  steeled  the  Afric's  neart, 
To  shake  aloft  his  vengeful  brand, 

And  rend  his  chain  apart. 

Have  I  not  known  thee  well,  and  read 

Thy  mighty  purpose  long  ? 
4.nd  watched  the  trials  which  have  made 

Thy  human  spirit  strong  ? 


And  shall  the  slanderer's  demon  breath 

Avail  with  one  like  me, 
To  dim  the  sunshine  of  my  faith 

And  earnest  trust  in  thee  ? 

Go  on,  the  dagger's  point  may  glare 

Amid  thy  pathway's  gloom  ; 
The  fate  which  sternly  threatens  there 

Is  glorious  martyrdom  ! 
Then  onward  with  a  martyr's  zeal  ; 

And  wait  thy  sure  reward 
When  man  to  man  no  more  shall  kneel, 

And  God  alone  be  Lord  ! 


TOUSSAINT   L'OUVERTURE 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  the  black  chieftain 
of  Hayti,  was  a  slave  on  the  plantation  "de 
Libertas,"  belonging  to  M.  Bayou.  When  the 
rising  of  the  negroes  took  place,  in  1701, 
Toussaint  refused  to  join  them  until  he  had 
aided  M.  Bayou  and  his  family  to  escape  to 
Baltimore.  The  white  man  had  discovered  in 
Toussaint  many  noble  qualities,  and  had  in 
structed  him  in  some  of  the  first  branches  of 
edvication  ;  and  the  preservation  of  his  life  was 
owing  to  the  negro's  gratitude  for  this  kind 
ness. 

In  1797,  Toussaint  L'Ouverture  was  ap 
pointed,  by  the  French  government,  General- 
in-Chief  of  the  armies  of  St.  Domingo,  and.  as 
STich,  signed  the  Convention  with  General 
Maitland  for  the  evacuation  of  the  island  by 
the  British.  From  this  period  until  1801  the 
island,  under  the  government  of  Toussaint, 
was  happy,  tranquil,  and  prosperous.  The 
miserable  attempt  of  Napoleon  to  reestablish 
slavery  in  St.  Domingo,  although  it  failed  of 
its  intended  object,  proved  fatal  to  the  negro 
chieftain.  Treacherously  seized  by  Leclerc, 
he  was  hurried  on  board  a  vessel  by  night,  and 
conveyed  to  France,  where  he  was  confined  in 
a  cold  subterranean  dungeon,  at  Besancjon, 
where,  in  April,  1803,  he  died.  The  treatment 
of  Toussaint  finds  a  parallel  only  in  the  mur 
der  of  the  Duke  D'Enghien.  It  was  the  re 
mark  of  Godwin,  in  his  Lectures,  chat  the 
West  India  Islands,  since  their  first  discovery 


TOUSSA1NT  L'OUVERTUAA 


263 


by  Columbus,  could  not  boast  of  a  single  name 
which  deserves  comparison  with  that  of  Tous- 
saint  LTOuverture. 

'TwAS    night.      The    tranquil    moonlight 

smile 
With  which    Heaven  dreams  of   Earth, 

shed  down 
Its  beauty  on  the  Indian  isle,  — 

On  broad  green  field  and  white-walled 

town  ; 

And  inland  waste  of  rock  and  wood, 
In  searching  sunshine,  wild  and  rude, 
Rose,  mellowed  through  the  silver  gleam, 
Soft  as  the  landscape  of  a  dream. 
All  motionless  and  dewy  wet, 
Tree,  vine,  and  flower  in  shadow  met : 
The  myrtle  with  its  snowy  bloom, 
Crossing  the  nightshade's  solemn  gloom, — 
The  white  cecropia's  silver  rind 
Relieved  by  deeper  green  behind, 
The  orange  with  its  fruit  of  gold, 
The  lithe  paullinia's  verdant  fold, 
The  passion-flower  with  symbol  holy, 
Twining  its  tendrils  long  and  lowly, 
The  rhexias  dark,  and  cassia  tall, 
And  proudly  rising  over  all, 
The  kingly  palm's  imperial  stem, 
Crowned  with  its  leafy  diadem, 
Star-like,  beneath  whose  sombre  shade, 
The  fiery-winged  cucullo  played  ! 

Flow  lovely  was  thine  aspect,  then, 
Fair  island  of  the  Western  Sea  ! 
Lavish  of  beauty,  even  when 
Thy  brutes  were  happier  than  thy  men, 

For  they,  at  least,  were  free  ! 
Regardless  of  thy  glorious  clime, 

Unmindful  of  thy  soil  of  flowers, 
The  toiling  negro  sighed,  that  Time 

No  faster  sped  his  hours. 
For,  by  the  dewy  moonlight  still, 
He  fed  the  weary-turning  mill, 
Or  bent  him  in  the  chill  morass, 
To  pluck  the  long  and  tangled  grass, 
And  hear  above  his  scar-worn  back 
The  heavy  slave-whip's  frequent  crack  : 
While  in  his  heart  one  evil  thought 
In  solitary  madness  wrought, 
One  baleful  fire  surviving  still 

The  quenching  of  the  immortal  mind, 
One  sterner  passion  of  his  kind, 
Which  even  fetters  could  not  kill, 
The  savage  hope,  to  deal,  erelong, 
A  vengeance  bitterer  than  his  wrong  I 


Hark  to  that  cry  !  long,  lond,  and  shrill, 
From  field  and  forest,  rock  and  hill, 
Thrilling  and  horrible  it  rang< 

Arouud,  beneath,  above  . 
The  wild  beast  from  his  caver-ii  sprang, 

The  wild  bird  from  her  grove  ! 
Nor  fear,  nor  joy,  nor  agony- 
Were  mingled  in  that  midnight  cry  ; 
But  like  the  lion's  growl  of  wrath, 
When  falls  that  hunter  in  his  path 
Whose  barbed  arrow,  deeply  set, 
Is  rankling  in  his  bosom  yet, 
It  told  of  hate,  full,  deep,  and  strong 
Of  vengeance  kindling  out  of  wrong  ; 
It  was  as  if  the  crimes  of  years  — 
The  unrequited  toil,  the  tears, 
The  shame  and  hate,  which  liken  well 
Earth's  garden  to  the  nether  hell  — 
Had  found  in  nature's  self  a  tongue, 
On  which  the  gathered  horror  hung; 
As  if  from  cliff,  and  stream,  and  glen 
Burst  on  the  startled  ears  of  men 
That  voice  which  rises  unto  God, 
Solemn  and  stern,  —  the  cry  of  blood  I 
It  ceased,  and  all  was  still  once  more, 
Save  ocean  chafing  on  his  shore, 
The  sighing  of  the  wind  between 
The  broad  banana's  leaves  of  green, 
Or  bough  by  restless  plumage  shook, 
Or  murmuring  voice  of  mountain  brook. 

Brief  was  the  silence.     Once  again 

Pealed  to  the  skies  that  frantic  yell, 
Glowed  on  the  heavens  a  fiery  stain, 

And  flashes  rose  and  fell  ; 
And  painted  on  the  blood-red  sky, 
Dark,  naked  arms  were  tossed  on  high  ; 
And,  round  the  white  man's  lordly  hall, 

Trod,  fierce  and  free,  the  brute  he  made 
And  those  who  crept  along  the  wall, 
And  answered  to  his  lightest  call 

With  more  than  spaniel  dread, 
The  creatures  of  his  lawless  beck, 
Were  trampling  on  his  very  neck  ! 
And  on  the  night-air,  wild  and  clear, 
Rose  woman's  shriek  of  more  than  fear  ; 
For  bloodied  arms  were  round  her  thrown 
And  dark  cheeks  pressed  against  her  own 

Then,  injured  Afric  !  for  the  shame 
Of  thy  own  daughters,  vengeance  came 
Full  on  the  scornful  hearts  of  those, 
Who  mocked  thee  in  thy  nameless  woes. 
And  to  thy  hapless  children  gave 
One  choice,  —  pollution  or  the  grave  i 


264 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Where  then  was  he  whose  liery  zeal 
Had  taught  the  trampled  heart  to  feel, 
Until  despair  itself  grew  strong, 
And  vengeance  fed  its  torch  from  wrong? 
Now,  when  the  thunderbolt  is  speeding  ; 
Now,    when   oppression's   heart    is   bleed 
ing  ; 
Now,  when  the  latent  curse  of  Time 

Is  raining  down  in  fire  and  blood, 
That  curse  which,  through  long  years  of 
crime, 

Has  gathered,  drop  by  drop,  its  flood,  — 
Why  strikes  he  not,  the  foremost  one, 
Where  murder's  sternest  deeds  are  done  ? 

He  stood  the  aged  palms  beneath, 

That  shadowed  o'er  his  humble  door, 
Listening,  with  half-suspended  breath, 
To  the  wild  sounds  of  fear  and  death, 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture  ! 
What  marvel  that  his  heart  beat  high  ! 

The  blow  for  freedom  had  been  given, 
And  blood  had  answered  to  the  cry 

Which  Earth  sent  up  to  Heaven  I 
What  marvel  that  a  fierce  delight 
Smiled  grimly  o'er  his  brow  of  night, 
As  groan  and  shout  and  bursting  flame 
Told  where  the  midnight  tempest  came, 
With  blood  and  fire  along  its  van, 
And  death  behind  !  he  was  a  Man  ! 

Yes,  dark-souled  chieftain  !  if  the  light 

Of  mild  Religion's  heavenly  ray 
Unveiled  not  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  lowlier  and  the  purer  way, 
In  which  the  Holy  Sufferer  trod, 

Meekly  amidst  the  sons  of  crime  ; 
That  calm  reliance  upon  God 

For  justice  in  His  own  good  time  ; 
That  gentleness  to  which  belongs 
Forgiveness  for  its  many  wrongs, 
Even  as  the  primal  martyr,  kneeling 
For  mercy  on  the  evil-dealing  ; 
Let  not  the  favored  white  man  name 
Thy  stern  appeal,  with  words  of  blame. 
Has  he  not,  with  the  light  of  heaven 

Broadly  around  him,  made  the  same  ? 
Yea,  on  his  thousand  war-fields  striven, 

And  gloried  in  his  ghastly  shame  ? 
Kneeling  amidst  his  brother's  blood, 
To  offer  mockery  unto  God, 
As  if  the  High  and  Holy  One 
Could  smile  on  deeds  of  murder  done  1 
As  if  a  human  sacrifice 
Were  purer  in  His  holy  eyes, 


Though  offered  up  by  Christian  hands, 
Than  the  foul  rites  of  Pagan  lands  ! 


Sternly,  amidst  his  household  band, 
His  carbine  grasped  within  his  hand, 

The  white  man  stood,  prepared  and  still 
Waiting  the  shock  of  maddened  men, 
Unchained,  and  fierce  as  tigers,  when 

The  horn  winds  through  their  caverned 

hill. 
And  one  was  weeping  in  his  sight, 

The  sweetest  flower  of  all  the  isle, 
The  bride  who  seemed  but  yesternight 

Love's  fair  embodied  smile. 
And,  clinging  to  her  trembling  knee, 
Looked  up  the  form  of  infancy, 
With  tearful  glance  in  either  face 
The  secret  of  its  fear  to  trace. 

"  Ha  !  stand  or  die  !  "    The  white  man's  eye 

His  steady  musket  gleamed  along, 
As  a  tall  Negro  hastened  nigh, 

With  fearless  step  and  strong. 
"  What  ho,  Toussaint  !  "     A  moment  more, 
His  shadow  crossed  the  lighted  floor. 
"  Away  !  "  he  shouted  ;   "  fly  with  me, 
The  white  man's  bark  is  on  the  sea  ; 
Her  sails  must  catch  the  seaward  wind, 
For  sudden  vengeance  sweeps  behind. 
Our  brethren  from  their  graves  have  spokeu, 
The  yoke  is  spurned,  the  chain  is  broken  ; 
On  all  the  hills  our  fires  are  glowing, 
Through  all  the  vales  red  blood  is  flowing ! 
No  more  the  mocking  White  shall  rest 
His  foot  upon  the  Negro's  breast  ; 
No  more,  at  morn  or  eve,  shall  drip 
The  warm  blood  from  the  driver's  whip  : 
Yet,  though  Toussaint  has  vengeance  sworn 
For  all  the  wrongs  his  race  have  borne, 
Though  for  each  drop  of  Negro  blood 
The  white  man's  veins  shall  pour  a  flood  ; 
Not  all  alone  the  sense  of  ill 
Around  his  heart  is  lingering  still, 
Nor  deeper  can  the  white  man  feel 
The  generous  warmth  of  grateful  zeal. 
Friends  of  the  Negro  !  fly  with  me, 
The  path  is  open  to  the  sea  : 
Away,  for  life  !  "     He  spoke,  and  pressed 
The  young  child  to  his  manly  breast, 
As,  headlong,  through  the  cracking  cane, 
Down  swept  the  dark  insurgent  train, 
Drunken  and  grim,  with  shout  and  yell 
Howled  through  the  dark,  like  sounds  from 
hell. 


THE  SLAVE-SHIPS 


Far  out,  in  peace,  the  white  man's  sail 
Swayed  free  before  the  sunrise  gale. 
Cloud-like  that  island  hung  afar, 

Along  the  bright  horizon's  verge, 
O'er  which  the  curse  of  servile  war 

Rolled  its  red  torrent,  surge  on  surge  ; 
And  he,  the  Negro  champion,  where 

In  the  fierce  tumult  struggled  he  ? 
Go  trace  him  by  the  fiery  glare 
Of  dwellings  in  the  midnight  air, 
The  yells  of  triumph  and  despair, 

The  streams  that  crimson  to  the  sea  ! 

Sleep  calmly  in  thy  dungeon-tomb, 
Beneath  Besangon's  alien  sky, 

Dark  Haytien  !  for  the  time  shall  come, 
Yea,  even  now  is  nigh, 

When,  everywhere,  thy  name  shall  be 

Redeemed  from  color's  infamy  ; 

And  men  shall  learn  to  speak  of  thee 

As  one  of  earth's  great  spirits,  born 

In  servitude,  and  nursed  in  scorn, 

Casting  aside  the  weary  weight 

And  fetters  of  its  low  estate, 

In  that  strong  majesty  of  soul 

Which  knows  no  color,  tongue,  or  clime, 
Which  still  hath  spurned  the  base  control 
Of  tyrants  through  all  time  ! 

Far  other  hands  than  mine  may  wreathe 
The  laurel  round  thy  brow  of  death, 
And  speak  thy  praise,  as  one  whose  word 
A  thousand  fiery  spirits  stirred, 
Who  crushed  his  foeman  as  a  worm, 
Whose  step  on  human  hearts  fell  firm  : 
Be  mine  the  better  task  to  find 
A  tribute  for  thy  lofty  mind, 
Amidst  whose  gloomy  vengeance  shone 
Some  milder  virtues  all  thine  own, 
Some  gleams  of  feeling  pure  and  warm, 
Like  sunshine  on  a  sky  of  storm, 
Proofs  that  the  Negro's  heart  retains 
Some  nobleness  amid  its  chains,  — 
That  kindness  to  the  wronged  is  never 

Without  its  excellent  reward, 
Holy  to  human-kind  and  ever 
Acceptable  to  God. 

THE   SLAVE-SHIPS 

"  That  fatal,  that  perfidious  bark, 
Built  i  the  eclipse,  and  rigged  with  curses  dark." 
MILTON'S  Lycidas. 

"  The  French  ship  Le  Rodeur,  with  a  crew 
of  twenty-two  men,  and  with  one  hundred  and 


sixty  negro  slaves,  sailed  from  Bonny,  in  Africa, 
April,  1810.  On  approaching  the  line,  a  terrible 
malady  broke  out,  —  an  obstinate  disease  of  the 
eyes,  —  contagious,  and  altogether  beyond  the 
resources  of  medicine.  It  was  aggravated  by 
the  scarcity  of  water  among-  the  slaves  (only 
half  a  wine-giass  per  day  being-  allowed  to  an 
individual),  and  by  the  extreme  impurity  of 
the  air  in  which  they  breathed.  By  the  advice 
of  the  physician,  they  were  brought  upon  deck 
occasionally ;  but  some  of  the  poor  wretches, 
locking  themselves  in  each  other's  arms,  leaped 
overboard,  in  the  hope,  which  so  universally 
prevails  among  them,  of  being  swiftly  trans 
ported  to  their  own  homes  in  Africa.  To 
check  this,  the  captain  ordered  several,  who 
were  stopped  in  the  attempt,  to  be  shot,  or 
hanged,  before  their  companions.  The  disease 
extended  to  the  crew  ;  and  one  after  another 
were  smitten  with  it,  until  only  one  remained 
unaffected.  Yet  even  this  dreadful  condition 
did  not  preclude  calculation  :  to  save  the  ex 
pense  of  supporting  slaves  rendered  unsalable, 
and  to  obtain  grounds  for  a  claim  against  the 
underwriters,  thirty-six  of  the  negroes,  having 
become  blind,  were  thrown  into  the  s?a  and 
drowned  !  "  —  Speech  ofM.  Benjamin  Constant, 
in  the  French  Chamber  of  Deputies,  June  17, 

In  the  midst  of  their  dreadful  fears  lest  the 
solitary  individual  whose  sight  remained  un 
affected  should  also  be  seized  with  the  malady, 
a  sail  was  discovered.  It  was  the  Spanish  sla 
ver,  Leon.  The  same  disease  had  been  there  ; 
and,  horrible  to  tell,  all  the  crew  had  become 
blind  !  Unable  to  assist  each  other,  the  ves 
sels  parted.  The  Spanish  ship  has  never  since 
been  heard  of.  The  Rodeur  reached  Guada- 
loupe  on  the  21st  of  June  ;  the  only  man  who 
had  escaped  the  disease,  and  had  thus  beei? 
enabled  to  steer  the  slaver  into  port,  caught  it 
in  three  days  after  its  arrival.  —  Bibliothequt 
Ophthalmologique  for  November,  1819. 

"  ALL  ready  ?  "  cried  the  captain  ; 

"  Ay,  ay  !  "  the  seamen  said  ; 
"  Heave  up  the  worthless  lubbers,  — 

The  dying  and  the  dead." 
Up  from  the  slave-ship's  prison 

Fierce,  bearded  heads  were  thrust 
"  Now  let  the  sharks  look  to  it,  — 

Toss  up  the  dead  ones  first !  " 

Corpse  after  corpse  came  up,  — 
Death  had  been  busy  there  ; 

Where  every  blow  is  mercy, 
Why  should  the  spoiler  spare  ? 

Corpse  after  corpse  they  cast 
Sullenly  from  the  ship, 


266 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Yet  bloody  with  the  traces 
Of  fetter-link  and  whip. 

Gloomily  stood  the  captain, 

With  his  arms  upon  his  breast, 
With  his  cold  brow  sternly  knotted 

And  his  iron  lip  compressed. 
"  Are  all  the  dead  dogs  over  ?  " 

Growled  through  that  matted  lip; 
"  The  blind  ones  are  no  better, 
Let 's  lighten  the  good  ship." 

Hark  !  from  the  ship's  dark  bosom, 

The  very  sounds  of  hell  ! 
The  ringing  clank  of  iron, 

The  maniac's  short,  sharp  yell  ! 
The  hoarse,  low  curse,  throat-stifled  ; 

The  starving  infant's  moan, 
The  horror  of  a  breaking  heart 

Poured  through  a  mother's  groan. 

Up  from  that  loathsome  prison 

The  stricken  blind  ones  came  ; 
Below,  had  all  been  darkness, 

Above,  was  still  the  same. 
5Tet  the  holy  breath  of  heaven 

Was  sweetly  breathing  there, 
And  the  heated  brow  of  fever 

Cooled  in  the  soft  sea  air. 

"Overboard  with  them,  shipmates  !" 

Cutlass  and  clirk  were  plied  ; 
Fettered  and  blind,  one  after  one, 

Plunged  down  the  vessel's  side. 
The  sabre  smote  above, 

Beneath,  the  lean  shark  lay, 
Waiting  with  wide  and  bloody  jaw 

His  quick  and  human  prey. 

God  of  the  earth  !  what  cries 

Rang  upward  unto  thee  ? 
Voices  of  agony  and  blood, 

From  ship-deck  and  from  sea. 
The  last  dull  plunge  was  heard, 

The  last  wave  caught  its  stain, 
And  the  unsated  shark  looked  up 

For  human  hearts  in  vain. 


Red  glowed  the  western  waters, 
The  setting  sun  was  there, 

Scattering  alike  on  wave  and  cloud 
His  fiery  mesh  of  hair. 

Amidst  a  group  in  blindness, 
A  solitary  eye 


Gazed,  from  the  burdened  slaver's  deck, 
Into  that  burning  sky. 

"  A  storm,"  spoke  out  the  gazer, 
"  Is  gathering  and  at  hand  ; 
Curse  on  %  I  'd  give  my  other  eye 

For  one  firm  rood  of  land." 
And  then  he  laughed,  but  only 

His  echoed  laugh  replied, 
For  the  blinded  and  the  suffering 
Alone  were  at  his  side. 

Night  settled  on  the  waters, 

And  on  a  stormy  heaven, 
While  fiercely  on  that  lone  ship's  track 

The  thunder-gust  was  driven. 
"  A  sail  !  —  thank  God,  a  sail  !  " 

And  as  the  helmsman  spoke, 
Up  through  the  stormy  murmur 

A  shout  of  gladness  broke. 

Down  came  the  stranger  vessel, 

Unheeding  on  her  way, 
So  near  that  on  the  slaver's  deck 

Fell  off  her  driven  spray. 
"  Ho  !  for  the  love  of  mercy, 

We  're  perishing  and  blind  !  " 
A  wail  of  utter  agony 

Came  back  upon  the  wind  : 

"  Help  us  !  for  we  are  stricken 

With  blindness  every  one  ; 
Ten  days  we  've  floated  fearfully. 

Unnoting  star  or  sun. 
Our  ship  's  the  slaver  Leon,  — 

We  've  but  a  score  on  board  ; 
Our  slaves  are  all  gone  over,  — 

Help,  for  the  love  of  God  ! " 

On  livid  brows  of  agony 

The  broad  red  lightning  shone  r 
But  the  roar  of  wind  and  thundei 

Stifled  the  answering  groan  ; 
Wailed  from  the  broken  waters 

A  last  despairing  cry, 
As,  kindling  in  the  stormy  light, 

The  stranger  ship  went  by. 


In  the  sunny  Guadaloupe 
A  dark-hulled  vessel  lay, 

With  a  crew  who  noted  nev<?r 
The  nightfall  or  the  day. 

The  blossom  of  the  orange 
Was  white  by  every  st?eam, 


EXPOSTULATION 


267 


And  tropic  leaf,  and  flower,  and  bird 
Were  in  the  warm  sunbeam. 

And  the  sky  was  bright  as  ever, 

And  the  moonlight  slept  as  well, 
On  the  palm-trees  by  the  hillside, 

And  the  streamlet  of  the  dell  : 
And  the  glances  of  the  Creole 

Were  still  as  archly  deep, 
And  her  smiles  as  full  as  ever 

Of  passion  and  of  sleep. 

But  vain  were  bird  and  blossom, 

The  green  earth  and  the  sky, 
And  the  smile  of  human  faces, 

To  the  slaver's  darkened  eye  ; 
At  the  breaking  of  the  morning, 

At  the  star-lit  evening  time, 
O'er  a  world  of  light  and  beauty 

Fell  the  blackness  of  his  crime. 


EXPOSTULATION 

[Originally  termed  Stanzas,  then  Fallen.'] 

Dr.  Charles  Follen,  a  German  patriot,  who 
had  come  to  America  for  the  freedom  which  was 
denied  him  in  his  native  land,  allied  himself 
with  the  abolitionists,  and  at  a  convention  of 
delegates  from  all  the  anti-slavery  organiza 
tions  in  New  England,  held  at  Boston  in  May, 
1834,  was  chairman  of  a  committee  to  prepare 
an  address  to  the  people  of  New  England. 
Toward  the  close  of  the  address  occurred  the 
passage  which  suggested  these  lines. 

"  The  despotism  which  our  fathers  could 
not  bear  in  their  native  country  is  expiring, 
and  the  sword  of  justice  in  her  reformed  hands 
has  applied  its  exterminating  edge  to  slavery. 
Shall  the  United  States  —  the  free  United 
States,  which  could  riot  bear  the  bonds  of  a 
king  —  cradle  the  bondage  which  a  king  is 
abolishing  ?  Shall  a  Republic  be  less  free  than 
a  Monarchy  ?  Shall  we,  in  the  vigor  and  buoy 
ancy  of  our  manhood,  be  less  energetic  in  right 
eousness  than  a  kingdom  in  its  age  ?  "  —  Dr. 
Fallen's  Address. 

"  Genius  of  America  !  —  Spirit  of  our  free 
institution  !  —  where  art  thou  ?  How  art  thou 
fallen,  0  Lucifer !  son  of  the  morning,  —  how 
art  thou  fallen  from  Heaven  !  Hell  from  be 
neath  is  moved  for  thee,  to  meet  thee  at  thy 
coming  !  The  kings  of  the  earth  cry  out  to 
thee,  Aha  !  Aha  !  Art  thou  become  like  unto 
us  ?  "  Speech  of  Samuel  J  May. 

OUR  fellow-countrymen  in  chains  ! 
Slaves,  in  a  land  of  light  and  law  ! 


Slaves,  crouching  on  the  very  plains 

Where    rolled    the  storm    of   Freedom's 
war  ! 

A  groan  from  Entaw's  haunted  wood, 
A  wail  where  Camden's  martyrs  fell, 

By  every  shrine  of  patriot  blood, 

From  Moultrie's  wall  and  Jasper's  well  J 

By  storied  hill  and  hallowed  grot, 

By  mossy  wood  and  marshy  glen, 
Whence  rang  of  old  the  rifle-shot, 

And  hurrying  shout  of  Marion's  men ! 
The  groan  of  breaking  hearts  is  there, 

The  falling  lash,  the  fetter's  clank  ! 
Slaves,  slaves  are  breathing  in  that  air 

Which  old  De  Kalb  and  Sumter  drank  ! 

What  ho  !  our  countrymen  in  chains  ! 

The  whip  on  woman's  shrinking  flesh  ! 
Our  soil  yet  reddening  with  the  stains 

Caught   from  her  scourging,  warm  and 

fresh  ! 
What  !  mothers  from  their  children  riven  ! 

What !    God's   own   image   bought    and 

sold  ! 
Americans  to  market  driven, 

And  bartered  as  the  brute  for  gold  ! 

Speak  !  shall  their  agony  of  prayer 

Come  thrilling  to  our  hearts  in  vain  ? 
To  us  whose  fathers  scorned  to  bear 

The  paltry  menace  of  a  chain  ; 
To  us,  whose  boast  is  loud  and  long 

Of  holy  Liberty  and  Light  ; 
Say,  shall  these  writhing  slaves  of  Wrong 

Plead  vainly  for  their  plundered  Right  ? 

What !  shall  we  send,  with  lavish  breath, 

Our  sympathies  across  the  wave, 
Where  Manhood,  on  the  field  of  death, 

Strikes  for  his  freedom  or  a  grave  ? 
Shall  prayers  go  up,  and  hymns  be  sung 

For  Greece,  the  Moslem  fetter  spurning 
And  millions  hail  with  pen  and  tongue 

Our  light  on  all  her  altars  burning  ? 

Shall  Belgium  feel,  and  gallant  France, 

By   Vendome's    pile    and    Schoenbrun's 

wall, 
And  Poland,  gasping  on  her  lance, 

The  impulse  of  our  cheering  call  ? 
And  shall  the  slave,  beneath  our  eye, 

Clank  o'er  our  fields  his  hateful  chain  ? 
And  toss  his  fettered  arms  on  high, 

And  groan  for  Freedom's  gift,  in  vain  ? 


268 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Oh,  say,  shall  Prussia's  banner  be 

A  refuge  for  the  stricken  slave  ? 
And  shall  the  Russian  serf  go  free 

By  Baikal's  lake  and  Neva's  wave  ? 
And  shall  the  wintry-bosomed  Dane 

Relax  the  iron  hand  of  pride, 
And  bid  his  bondmen  cast  the  chain 

From  fettered  soul  and  lirnb  aside  ? 

Shall  every  flap  of  England's  flag 

Proclaim  that  all  aroujid  are  free, 
From  farthest  Ind  to  each  blue  crag 

That  beetles  o'er  the  Western  Sea  ? 
And  shall  we  scoff  at  Europe's  kings, 

When  Freedom's  fire  is  dim  with  us, 
And  round  our  country's  altar  clings 

The  damning  shade  of  Slavery's  curse  ? 

Go,  let  us  ask  of  Constantino 

To  loose  his  grasp  on  Poland's  throat ; 
And  beg  the  lord  of  Mahmoud's  line 

To  spare  the  struggling  Suliote  ; 
Will  not  the  scorching  answer  come 

From  turbaned  Turk,  and  scornful  Russ  : 
*'  Go,  loose  your  fettered  slaves  at  home, 

Then  turn  and  ask  the  like  of  us  !  " 

Just  God  !  and  shall  we  calmly  rest, 

The    Christian's    scorn,    the     heathen's 

mirth, 
(Jontent  to  live  the  lingering  jest 

And  by-word  of  a  mocking  Earth  ? 
Shall  our  own  glorious  land  retain 

That    curse    which    Europe    scorns    to 

bear? 
Shall  our  own  brethren  drag  the  chain 

Which  not  even  Russia's  menials  wear  ? 

Up,  then,  in  Freedom's  manly  part, 

From  graybeard  eld  to  fiery  youth, 
And  on  the  nation's  naked  heart 

Scatter  the  living  coals  of  Truth  ! 
Up  !  while  ye  slumber,  deeper  yet 

The  shadow  of  our  fame  is  growing  ! 
Up  !  while  ye  pause,  our  sun  may  set 

In  blood  around  our  altars  flowing  ! 

Oh  !  rouse  ye,  ere  the  storm  comes  forth, 

The  gathered  wrath  of  God  and  man, 
Like  that  which  wasted  Egypt's  earth, 

When  hail  and  fire  above  it  ran. 
Hear  ye  no  warnings  in  the  air  ? 

Feel  ye  no  earthquake  underneath  ? 
Up,  up  !  why  will  ye  slumber  where 

The  sleeper  only  wakes  in  death  ? 


Rise  now  for  Freedom  !  not  in  strife 

Like  that  your  sterner  fathers  saw, 
The  awful  waste  of  human  life, 

The  glory  and  the  guilt  of  war  : 
But  break  the  chain,  the  yoke  remove, 

And  smite  to  earth  Oppression's  rod, 
With  those  mild  arms  of  Truth  and  Love, 

Made  mighty  through  the  living  God  ! 

Down  let  the  shrine  of  Moloch  sink, 

And  leave  no  traces  where  it  stood  ; 
Nor  longer  let  its  idol  drink 

His  daily  cup  of  human  blood  ; 
But  rear  another  altar  there, 

To  Truth  and  Love  and  Mercy  given, 
And  Freedom's  gift,  and  Freedom's  prayer, 

Shall  call  an  answer  down  from  Heaven! 


HYMN 

Written  for  the  meeting  of  the  Anti-Slavery 
Society,  at  Chatham  Street  Chapel,  New  York, 
held  on  the  4th  of  the  seventh  month,  1834. 
[Originally  entitled  Lines.] 

O  THOU,  whose  presence  went  before 
Our  fathers  in  their  weary  way, 

As  with  Thy  chosen  moved  of  yore 
The  fire  by  night,  the  cloud  by  day  ! 

When  from  each  temple  of  the  free, 
A  nation's  song  ascends  to  Heaven, 

Most  Holy  Father  !  unto  Thee 

May  not  our  humble  prayer  be  given  ? 

Thy  children  all,  though  hue  and  form 
Are  varied  in  Thine  own  good  will, 

With  Thy  own  holy  breathings  warm, 
And  fashioned  in  Thine  image  still. 

We  thank  Thee,  Father  !  hill  and  plain 
Around  us  wave  their  fruits  once  mores 

And  clustered  vine  and  blossomed  grain 
Are  bending  round  each  cottage  door. 

And  peace  is  here  ;  and  hope  and  love 
Are  round  us  as  a  mantle  thrown, 

And  unto  Thee,  supreme  above, 
The  knee  of  prayer  is  bowed  alone. 

But  oh,  for  those  this  day  can  bring, 

As  unto  us,  no  joyful  thrill  ; 
For  those  who,  under  Freedom's  wing, 

Are  bound  in  Slavery's  fetters  still  : 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL 


269 


For  those  to  whom  Thy  written  word 
Of  light  and  love  is  never  given  ', 

For  those  whose  ears  have  never  heard 
The  promise  and  the  hope  of  heaven  ! 

For  broken  heart,  and  clouded  mind, 
Whereon  no  human  mercies  fall  ; 

Oh,  be  Thy  gracious  love  inclined, 
Who,  as  a  Father,  pitiest  all  ! 

And  grant,  O  Father  !  that  the  time 
Of  Earth's  deliverance  may  be  near, 

When  every  land  and  tongue  and  clime 
The  message  of  Thy  love  shall  hear  ; 

When,  smitten  as  with  fire  from  heaven, 
The  captive's  chain  shall  sink  in  dust, 

And  to  his  fettered  soul  be  given 
The  glorious  freedom  of  the  just ! 


THE  YANKEE  GIRL 

SHE  sings  by  her  wheel  at  that  low  cot 
tage-door, 

Which  the  long  evening  shadow  is  stretch 
ing  before, 

With  a  music  as  sweet  as  the  music  which 
seems 

Breathed  softly  and  faint  in  the  ear  of  our 
dreams  ! 

How  brilliant  and  mirthful  the  light  of  her 

eye, 
Like  a  star  glancing  out  from  the  blue  of 

the  sky  ! 
And  lightly   and   freely  her  dark  tresses 

play 
O'er  a  brow  and  a  bosom  as  lovely  as  they  ! 

Who  comes  in  his  pride  to  that  low  cot 
tage-door, 

The  haughty  and  rich  to  the  humble  and 
poor  ? 

'T  is  the  great  Southern  planter,  the  mas 
ter  who  waves 

His  whip  of  dominion  o'er  hundreds  of 
slaves. 

"  Nay,  Ellen,  for  shame  !  Let  those  Yan 
kee  fools  spin, 

Who  would  pass  for  our  slaves  with  a 
change  of  their  skin  ; 


Let  them  toil  as  they  will  at  the  loom  or 

the  wheel, 
Too  stupid  for  shame,  and  too    vulgar  to 

feel  ! 

"But   thou  art  too  lovely  and  precious  a 

gem 
To  be  bound  to  their  burdens  and  sullied 

by  them  ;^ 
For  shame,  Ellen,  shame,  cast  thy  bondage 

aside, 
And  away  to  the  South,  as  my  blessing  and 

pride. 

"  Oh,  come  where  no  winter  thy  footsteps 

can  wrong, 
But  where  flowers  are  blossoming  all  the 

year  long, 
Where  the  shade  of  the  palm-tree  is  over 

my  home, 
And  the  lemon  and  orange  are   white   in 

their  bloom  ! 

"  Oh,  come  to  my  home,  where  my  servants 

shall  all 

Depart  at  thy  bidding  and  come  at  thy  call  ; 
They    shall    heed   thee    as    mistress    with 

trembling  and  awe, 
And  each  wish  of  thy  heart  shall  be  felt  as 

a  law." 

Oh,  could  ye  have  seen  her  —  that  pride  of 

our  girls  — 
Arise  and  cast  back  the  dark  wealth  of  her 

curls, 
With  a  scorn  in  her  eye  which  the  gazer 

could  feel, 
And  a  glance  like  the  sunshine  that  flashes 

on  steel  ! 

"  Go  back,  haughty  Southron  !  thy  treas 
ures  of  gold 

Are  dim  with  the  blood  of  the  hearts  thou 
hast  sold  ; 

Thy  home  may  be  lovely,  but  round  it  I 
hear 

The  crack  of  the  whip  and  the  footsteps  oi 
fear  ! 

"  And  the  sky  of  thy  South  may  be  brighter 

than  ours, 
And  greener  thy  landscapes,  and  fairer  thy 

flowers  ; 


270 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


But  dearer  the  blast  round  our  mountains 

which  raves, 
Than    the    sweet    summer    zephyr    which 

breathes  over  slaves  ! 

"  Full  low  at  thy  bidding  thy  negroes  may 

kneel, 
With  the  iron  of  bondage  on   spirit   and 

heel  ; 
Yet   know    that   the    Yankee    girl    sooner 

would  be 
In  fetters  with  them,  than  in  freedom  with 

thee  !  " 


THE    HUNTERS    OF    MEN 

These  lines  were  written  when  the  orators  of 
the  American  Colonization  Society  were  de 
manding-  that  the  free  blacks  should  be  sent  to 
Africa,  and  opposing'  Emancipation  unless  ex 
patriation  followed.  !See  the  report  of  the  pro 
ceedings  of  the  society  at  its  annual  meeting 
in  1884. 

HAVE  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er  moun 
tain  and  glen, 

Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the  hunt 
ing  of  men  ? 

The  lords  of  our  land  to  this  hunting  have 


As  the 


gone, 
fox-h 


hunter  follows  the  sound  of  the 


horn  ; 

Hark  !  the  cheer  and  the  hallo  !  the  crack 
of  the  whip, 

And  the  yell  of  the  hound  as  he  fastens  his 
grip  ! 

All  blithe  are  our  hunters,  and  noble  their 
match, 

Though  hundreds  are  caught,  there  are  mil 
lions  to  catch. 

So  speed  to  their  hunting,  o'er  mountain 
and  glen, 

Through  cane-brake  and  forest,  —  the  hunt 
ing  of  men  ! 

Gay  luck  to  our  hunters  !  how  nobly  they 

ride 
In  the  glow  of  their  zeal,  and  the  strength 

of  their  pride  ! 
The  priest  with  his  cassock  flung  back  on 

the  wind, 

Just  screening  the  politic  statesman  behind  ; 
The  saint  and  the  sinner,  with  cursing  and 

prayer, 


The  drunk  and  the  sober,  ride  merrily  there. 
And  woman,  kind  woman,  wife,  widow,  and 

maid, 
For  the  good  of  the  hunted,  is  lending  her 

aid  : 
Her  foot 's  in  the  stirrup,  her  hand  on  the 

rein, 
How  blithely  she  rides  to  the  hunting  of 

men  ! 

Oh,  goodly  and  grand  is  our  hunting  to  see, 

In  this  "  land  of  the  brave  and  this  home  of 
the  free." 

Priest,  warrior,  and  statesman,  from  Geor 
gia  to  Maine, 

All  mounting  the  saddle,  all  grasping  the 
rein  ; 

Right  merrily  hunting  the  black  man,  whose 
sin 

Is  the  curl  of  his  hair  and  the  hue  of  his 
skin  ! 

Woe,  now,  to  the  hunted  who  turns  him  at 
bay  ! 

Will  our  hunters  be  turned  from  their  pur 
pose  and  prey  ? 

Will  their  hearts  fail  within  them  ?  their 
nerves  tremble,  when 

All  roughly  they  ride  to  the  hunting  of  men? 

Ho  !  alms  for  our  hunters  !  all  weary  and 

faint, 
Wax  the  curse  of  the  sinner  and  prayer  of 

the  saint. 
The  horn  is  wound  faintly,  the  echoes  are 

still, 
Over  cane-brake  and  river,  and  forest  and 

hill. 
Haste,  alms  for  our  hunters  !  the  hunted 

once  more 
Have  turned  from  their  flight  with  their 

backs  to  the  shore  : 
What  right  have  they  here   in  the  home  of 

the  white, 
Shadowed  o'er  by  our  banner  of  Freedom 

and  Right  ? 

Ho  !  alms  for  the  hunters  !  or  never  again 
Will  they  ride  in  their  pomp  to  the  hunting 

of  men  ! 

Alms,  alms  for  our  hunters  !  why  will  ye  de« 
lay, 

When  their  pride  and  their  glory  are  melt 
ing  away  ? 

The  parson  has  turned  ;  for,  on  charge  of 
his  own, 


STANZAS    FOR   THE   TIMES 


271 


Who  goeth  a  warfare,  or  banting,  alone  ? 
The  politic   statesman  looks   back  with  a 
sigh, 

There  is  doubt  in  his  heart,  there  is  fear  in 

his  eye. 
Oh,  haste,  lest  that  doubting  and  fear  shall 

prevail, 
And  the  bead  of  his  steed  take  the  place  of 

the  tail. 
Oh,  haste,  ere  he  leave  us  !  for  who  will 

ride  then, 
For   pleasure    or   gain,  to  the  hunting  of 

men  ? 


STANZAS  FOR  THE  TIMES 

The  "  Times  '*  referred  to  were  those  evil 
times  of  the  pro-slavery  meeting'  in  Faneuil 
Hall,  August  21,  1835,  in  which  a  demand  was 
made  for  the  suppression  of  free  speech,  lest  it 
should  endanger  the  foundation  of  commercial 
society. 

Is  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved, 

The  freedom  which  they  toiled  to  win  ? 

Is  this  the  soil  whereon  they  moved  ? 
Are  these  the  graves  they  slumber  in  ? 

Are  we  the  sons  by  whom  are  borne 

The  mantles  which  the  dead  have  worn  ? 

And  shall  we  crouch  above  these  graves, 
With  craven  soul  and  fettered  lip  ? 

Yoke  in  with  marked  and  branded  slaves, 
And  tremble  at  the  driver's  whip  ? 

Bend  to  the  earth  our  pliant  knees, 

And  speak  but  as  our  masters  please  ? 

Shall  outraged  Nature  cease  to  feel  ? 

Shall  Mercy's  tears  no  longer  flow  ? 
Shall  ruffian  threats  of  cord  and  steel, 

The  dungeon's  gloom,  the  assassin's  blow, 
Turn  back  the  spirit  roused  to  save 
The  Truth,  our  Country,  and  the  slave  ? 

Of  haman  skulls  that  shrine  was  made, 
Round  which  the  priests  of  Mexico 

Before  their  loathsome  idol  prayed  ; 
Is  Freedom's  altar  fashioned  so  ? 

And  must  we  yield  to  Freedom's  God, 

As  offering  meet,  the  negro's  blood  ? 

Shall   tongue    be    mute,  when    deeds    are 

wrought 
Which  well  might  shame  extremest  hell  ? 


Shall  freemen  lock  the  indignant  thought  ? 

Shall  Pity's  bosom  cease  to  swell  ? 
Shall  Honor   bleed  ?  —  shall    Truth  sue* 

cumb  ? 
Shall  pen,  and  press,  and  soul  be  dumb  ? 

No  ;  by  each  spot  of  haunted  ground, 

Where  Freedom   weeps  her   children's 

fall; 

By  Plymouth's  rock,  and  Bunker's  mound  ; 
By   Griswold's   stained     and   shattered 

wall; 

By  Warren's  ghost,  by  Langdon's  shade  ; 
By  all  the  memories  of  our  dead  ! 

By  their  enlarging  souls,  which  burst 
The  bands  and  fetters  round  them  set ; 

By  the  free  Pilgrim  spirit  nursed 
Within  our  inmost  bosoms,  yet, 

By  all  above,  around,  below, 

Be  ours  the  indignant  answer,  —  No  ! 

No  ;  guided  by  our  country's  laws, 

For  truth,  and  right,  and  suffering  man. 

Be  ours  to  strive  in  Freedom's  cause, 
As  Christians  may,  as  freemen  can  ! 

Still  pouring  on  unwilling  ears 

That  truth  oppression  only  fears. 

What  !  shall  we  guard  our  neighbor  still, 
While  woman  shrieks  beneath  his  rod, 

And  while  he  tramples  down  at  will 
The  image  of  a  common  God  ? 

Shall  watch  and  ward  be  round  him  set, 

Of  Northern  nerve  and  bayonet  ? 

And  shall  we  know  and  share  with  him 
The  danger  and  the  growing  shame  ? 

And  see  our  Freedom's  light  grow  dim, 
Which  should  have  filled  the  world  wit! 
flame  ? 

And,  writhing,  feel,  where'er  we  turn, 

A  world's  reproach  around  us  burn  ? 

Is  't  not  enough  that  this  is  borne  ? 

And  asks  our  haughty  neighbor  more  ? 
Must  fetters  which  his  slaves  have  worn 

Clank  round  the  Yankee  farmer's  door  9 
Must  he  be  told,  beside  his  plough, 
What  he  must  speak,  and  when,  and  how  ? 

Must  he  be  told  his  freedom  stands 
On  Slavery's  dark  foundations  strong  ; 

On  breaking  hearts  and  fettered  hands. 
On  robbery,  and  crime,  and  wrong  ? 


272 


ANTI-SLAVERY    POEMS 


That  all  his  fathers  taught  is  vain,  — 
That  Freedom's  emblem  is  the  chain  ? 

Its  life,  its  soul,  from  slavery  drawn  ! 

False,  foul,  profane  !     Go,  teach  as  well 
Of  holy  Truth  from  Falsehood  born  ! 

Of  Heaven  refreshed  by  airs  from  Hell  ! 
Of  Virtue  in  the  arms  of  Vice  ! 
Of  Demons  planting  Paradise  ! 

Rail  on,  then,  brethren  of  the  South, 
Ye  shall  not  hear  the  truth  the  less  ; 

No  seal  is  on  the  Yankee's  mouth, 
No  fetter  on  the  Yankee's  press  ! 

From  our  Green  Mountains  to  the  sea, 

One  voice  shall  thunder,  We  are  free  ! 


CLERICAL   OPPRESSORS 

In  the  report  of  the  celebrated  pro-slavery 
meeting1  in  Charleston,  S.  C. ,  on  the  4th  of  the 
ninth  month,  1835,  published  in  the  Courier  of 
that  city,  it  is  stated  :  "  The  clergy  of  all  de 
nominations  attended  in  a  body,  lending1  their 
sanction  to  the  proceedings,  and  adding-  by 
their  presence  to  the  impressive  character  of 
the  scene!  " 

JUST  God  !  and  these  are  they 
Who  minister  at  thine  altar,  God  of  Right ! 
Men  who  their  hands  with  prayer  and  bless 
ing  lay 

On  Israel's  Ark  of  light ! 

What !  preach,  and  kidnap  men  ? 
o-ive   thanks,   and   rob   thy   own   afflicted 

poor? 
Talk  of  thy  glorious  liberty,  and  then 

Bolt  hard  the  captive's  door  ? 

What  !  servants  of  thy  own 
Merciful  Son,  who  came  to  seek  and  save 
The  homeless  and    the   outcast,  fettering 
down 

The  tasked  and  plundered  slave  ! 

Pilate  and  Herod,  friends  ! 
Chief   priests  and  rulers,  as  of  old,  com 
bine  ! 
Just  God  and  holy  !  is  that  church,  which 

lends 
Strength  to  the  spoiler,  thine  ? 

Paid  hypocrites,  who  turn 
Judgment  aside,  and  rob  the  Holy  Book 


Of  those  high  words  of  truth  which  search 

and  burn 
In  warning  and  rebuke  ; 

Feed  fat,  ye  locusts,  feed  ! 
And,  in  your  tasselled  pulpits,  thank  the 

Lord 
That,  from  the  toiling  bondman's  utter  need, 

Ye  pile  your  own  full  board. 

How  long,  0  Lord  !  how  long 
Shall  such  a  priesthood  barter  truth  away, 
And  in  Thy  name,  for  robbery  and  wrong 

At  Thy  own  altars  pray  ? 

Is  not  Thy  hand  stretched  forth 
Visibly  in  the  heavens,  to  awe  and  smite  ? 
Shall  not  the  living  God  of  all  the  earth, 

And  heaven  above,  do  right  ? 

Woe,  then,  to  all  who  grind 
Their  brethren  of  a  common  Father  down  ! 
To   all    who    plunder   from    the   immortal 
mind 

Its  bright  and  glorious  crown  ! 

Woe  to  the  priesthood  i  woe 
To   those  whose  hire  is  with  the    price  of 

blood  ; 
Perverting,  darkening,   changing,  as  the\ 

go, 
The  searching  truths  of  God  ! 

Their  glory  and  their  might 
Shall   perish  ;  and  their  very  names  shall 

be 
Vile  before  all  the  people,  in  the  light 

Of  a  world's  liberty. 

Oh,  speed  the  moment  on 
When  Wrong  shall  cease,  and  Liberty  anc 

Love 
And  Truth  and  Right  throughout  the  eartl: 

be  known 
As  in  their  home  above. 


A    SUMMONS 

Written  on  the  adoption  of  Pinckney's  Reso 
lutions  in  the  House  of  Representatives,  and 
the  passag-e  of  Calhoun's  "  Bill  for  excluding 
Papers  written  or  printed,  touching  the  sub 
ject  of  Slavery,  from  the  U.  S.  Post-office,"  in 
the  Senate  of  the  United  States. 


A   SUMMONS 


273 


Mr.  Pinckney's  resolutions  were  in  brief  that 
Congress  had  no  authority  to  interfere  in  any 
way  with  slavery  in  the  States  ;  that  it  ought 
not  to  interfere  with  it  in  the  District  of  Co 
lumbia,  and  that  all  resolutions  to  that  end 
should  be  laid  on  the  table  without  printing. 
Mr.  Calhoun's  bill  made  it  a  penal  offence  for 
postmasters  in  any  State,  District,  or  Territory 
"  knowingly  to  deliver,  to  any  person  whatever, 
any  pamphlet,  newspaper,  handbill,  or  other 
printed  paper  or  pictorial  representation,  touch 
ing  the  subject  of  slavery,  where,  by  the  laws 
of  the  said  State,  District,  or  Territory,  their 
circulation  was  prohibited."  [Originally  en 
titled  Lines.] 

MEN  of  the  North-land  !  where  's  the  manly 

spirit 
Of  the  true-hearted  and  the  unshackled 

gone  ? 

Sons  of  old  freemen,  do  we  but  inherit 
Their  names  alone  ? 

Is  the  old  Pilgrim  spirit  quenched  within  us, 
Stoops  the  strong  manhood  of  our  souls 

so  low, 

That  Mammon's  lure  or  Party's  wile  can 
win  us 

To  silence  now  ? 

Now,   when   our   land   to   ruin's   brink   is 

verging, 
In  God's  name,  let  us  speak  while  there 

is  time  ! 

Now,  when  the  padlocks  for  our  lips  are 
forging, 

Silence  is  crime  ! 

What !  shall   we   henceforth   humbly    ask 

as  favors 
Rights  all  our  own  ?     In  madness  shall 

we  barter, 

For  treacherous  peace,  the  freedom  Nature 
gave  us, 

God  and  our  charter  ? 

Here  shall  the  statesman  forge  his  human 

fetters, 

Here  the  false  jurist  human  rights  deny, 
And  in  the  church,  their  proud  and  skilled 
abettors 

Make  truth  a  lie  ? 

Torture  the  pages  of  the  hallowed  Bible, 
To   sanction    crime,   and    robbery,    and 
blood  ? 


And,  in  Oppression's  hateful  service,  libel 
Both  man  and  God  ? 

Shall   our   New   England    stand   erect  no 

longer, 
But  stoop  in  chains  upon  her  downward 

way, 

Thicker  to  gather  on  her  limbs  and  stronger 
Day  after  day  ? 

Oh  no  ;  methinks  from  all  her  wild  green 

mountains  ; 
From    valleys    where    her    slumbering 

fathers  lie  ; 

From    her    blue    rivers   and   her   welling 
fountains, 

And  clear,  cold  sky  ; 

From   her   rough   coast,   and   isles,  which 

hungry  Ocean 

Gnaws  with    his  surges  ;  from  the  fish 
er's  skiff, 

With  white  sail  swaying  to  the  billow's  mo 
tion 

Round  rock  and  cliff  ; 

From   the   free  fireside   of   her   unbought 

farmer  ; 
From  her  free  laborer  at  his  loom  and 

wheel  ; 

From    the    brown    smith-shop,   where,  be 
neath  the  hammer, 
Rings  the  red  steel  ; 

From  each  and  all,  if  God  hath  not  forsaken 

Our  land,  and  left  us  to  an  evil  choice, 
Loud   as    the    summer    thunderbolt    shall 
waken 

A  People's  voice. 

Startling   and  stern  !  the  Northern  winds 

shall  bear  it 

Over  Potomac's  to  St.  Mary's  wave  ; 
And  buried  Freedom  shall  awake  to  hear  it 
Within  her  grave. 

Oh,  let   that  voice  go  forth  !     The  bond 
man  sighing 

By  Santee's  wave,  in  Mississippi's  cane, 
Shall  feel  the  hope,  within  his  bosom  dying, 
Revive  again. 

Let   it   go   forth  !     The  millions  who  are 

gazing 
Sadly  upon  us  from  afar  shall  smile, 


274 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


And  unto  God  devout  thanksgiving  raising, 
Bless  us  the  while. 

Oh   for  your   ancient   freedom,  pure   and 

holy, 

For  the  deliverance  of  a  groaning  earth, 
For  the  wronged  captive,  bleeding,  crushed, 
and  lowly, 

Let  it  go  forth  ! 

Sons  of   the  best  of  fathers  !  will  ye  fal 
ter 
With   all   they   left   ye  perilled  and  at 

stake  ? 

Ho  !  once  again  on  Freedom's  holy  altar 
The  fire  awake  ! 

Prayer-strengthened  for  the  trial,  come  to 
gether, 

Put  on  the  harness  for  the  moral  fight, 
And,  with  the  blessing  of  your  Heavenly 
Father, 

Maintain  the  right ! 


TO    THE    MEMORY   OF    THOMAS 
SHIPLEY 

Thomas  Shipley  of  Philadelphia  was  a  life 
long-  Christian  philanthropist,  and  advocate 
of  emancipation.  At  his  funeral  thousands  of 
colored  people  came  to  take  their  last  look  at 
their  friend  and  protector.  He  died  Septem 
ber  17,  1836. 

GONE  to  thy  Heavenly  Father's  rest ! 

The  flowers  of  Eden  round  thee  blow 
ing, 
And  on  thine  ear  the  murmurs  blest 

Of  Siloa's  waters  softly  flowing  ! 
Beneath  that  Tree  of  Life  which  gives 
To  all  the  earth  its  healing  leaves 
In  the  white  robe  of  angels  clad, 

And  wandering  by  that  sacred  river, 
Whose  streams  of  holiness  make  glad 

The  city  of  our  God  forever  ! 

Gentlest  of  spirits  !  not  for  thee 

Our  tears  are  shed,  our  sighs  are  given  ; 

Why  mourn  to  know  thou  art  a  free 
Partaker  of  the  joys  of  heaven  ? 

Finished  thy  work,  and  kept  thy  faith 

In  Christian  firmness  unto  death  ; 

And  beautiful  as  sky  and  earth, 


When  autumn's  sun  is  downward  going, 
The  blessed  memory  of  thy  worth 

Around  thy  place  of  slumber  glowing  J 

But  woe  for  us  !  who  linger  still 

With   feebler   strength   and  hearts  less 

lowly, 
And  minds  less  steadfast  to  the  will 

Of  Him  whose  every  work  is  holy. 
For  not  like  thine,  is  crucified 
The  spirit  of  our  human  pride  : 
And  at  the  bondman's  tale  of  woe, 

And  for  the  outcast  and  forsaken^ 
Not  warm  like  thine,  but  cold  and  slow. 

Our  weaker  sympathies  awaken. 

Darkly  upon  our  struggling  way 

The  storm  of  human  hate  is  sweeping  ; 
Hunted  and  branded,  and  a  prey, 

Our  watch  amidst  the  darkness  keeping 
Oh,  for  that  hidden  strength  which  can 
Nerve  unto  death  the  inner  man  ! 
Oh,  for  thy  spirit,  tried  and  true, 

And  constant  in  the  hour  of  trial, 
Prepared  to  suffer,  or  to  do, 

In  meekness  and  in  self-denial. 

Oh,  for  that  spirit,  meek  and  mild, 

Derided,  spurned,  yet  uncomplaining  ; 
By  man  deserted  and  reviled, 

Yet  faithful  to  its  trust  remaining. 
Still  prompt  and  resolute  to  save 
From  scourge  and  chain  the  hunted  slave  ; 
Unwavering  in  the  Truth's  defence, 

Even  where  the  fires  of  Hate  were  burn 
ing,.  t 
The  unquailing  eye  of  innocence 

Alone  upon  the  oppressor  turning  ! 

O  loved  of  thousands  !  to  thy  grave, 

Sorrowing  of   heart,  thy  brethren  bore 

thee. 
The  poor  man  and  the  rescued  slave 

Wept   as   the    broken  earth   closed  o'er 

thee  ; 

And  grateful  tears,  like  summer  rain, 
Quickened  its  dying  grass  again  ! 
And  there,  as  to  some  pilgrim-shrine, 

Shall  come  the  outcast  and  the  lowly, 
Of  gentle  deeds  and  words  of  thine 

Recalling  memories  sweet  and  holy  ! 

Oh,  for  the  death  the  righteous  die  ! 
An  end,  like  autumn's  day  declining, 


RITNER 


275 


On  human  hearts,  as  on  the  sky, 

With  holier,  tenderer  beauty  shining  ; 

As  to  the  parting  soul  were  given 

The  radiance  of  an  opening  heaven  ! 

As  if  that  pure  and  blessed  light, 
From  off  the  Eternal  altar  flowing, 

Were  bathing,  in  its  upward  flight, 
The  spirit  to  its  worship  going  ! 


THE  MORAL  WARFARE 

WHEN  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day, 
Within  her  war-rocked  cradle  lay, 
An  iron  race  around  her  stood, 
Baptized  her  infant  brow  in  blood  ; 
And,  through  the  storm  which  round  her 

swept, 
Their  constant  ward  and  watching  kept. 

Then,  where  our  quiet  herds  repose, 
The  roar  of  baleful  battle  rose, 
And  brethren  of  a  common  tongue 
To  mortal  strife  as  tigers  sprung, 
And  every  gift  on  Freedom's  shrine 
WTas  man  for  beast,  and  blood  for  wine  ! 

Our  fathers  to  their  graves  have  gone  ; 
Their  strife  is  past,  their  triumph  won  ; 
But  sterner  trials  wait  the  race 
Which  rises  in  their  honored  place  ; 
A  moral  warfare  with  the  crime 
And  folly  of  an  evil  time. 

So  let  it  be.     In  God's  own  might 

We  gird  us  for  the  coming  fight, 

And,  strong  in  Him  whose  cause  is  ours 

In  conflict  with  unholy  powers, 

We  grasp  the  weapons  He  has  given, — 

The  Light,  and  Truth,  and  Love  of  Heaven. 


RITNER 

Written  on  reading1  the  Message  of  Governor 
Ritner,  of  Pennsylvania,  1836.  The  fact  re 
dounds  to  the  credit  and  serves  to  perpetuate 
the  memory  of  the  independent  farmer  and 
high-souled  statesman,  that  he  alone  of  all  the 
Governors  of  the  Union  in  1836  met  the  insulting 
demands  and  menaces  of  the  South  in  a  manner 
becoming  a  freeman  and  hater  of  Slavery,  in 
his  message  to  the  Legislature  of  Pennsylvania. 
[Originally  entitled  Lines.] 


THANK  God  for  the  token  !  one  lip  is  still 

free, 
One    spirit    untrammelled,  unbending  one 

knee  ! 
Like  the  oak  of  the  mountain,  deep-rooted 

and  firm, 
Erect,  when    the  multitude   bends   to   the 

storm  ; 
When   traitors   to    Freedom,  and    Honor, 

and  God5 

Are  bowed  at  an  Idol  polluted  with  blood  ; 
When  the  recreant  North  has  forgotten  her 

trust, 

And  the  lip  of  her  honor  is  low  in  the  dust, — 
Thank  God,  that  one  arm  from  the  shackle 

has  broken  ! 
Thank  God,  that  one  man  as  a  freeman  has 

spoken  ! 

O'er  thy  crags,  Alleghany,  a  blast  has  been 

blown  ! 
Down  thy  tide,  Susquehanna,  the  murmur 

has  gone  ! 
To  the  land  of  the  South,  of  the  charter  and 

chain, 

Of  Liberty  sweetened  with  Slavery's  pain  ; 
Where  the  cant  of  Democracy  dwells  on  the 

lips 
Of  the  forgers  of  fetters,  and  wielders  of 

whips  ! 
WThere  "  chivalric  "  honor  means  really  no 

more 
Than  scourging  of  women,  and  robbing  the 

poor  ! 
Where  the  Moloch  of   Slavery  sitteth   on 

high, 

And  the  words  which  he  utters,  are  — Wor 
ship,  or  die  ! 

Right  onward,  oh,  speed  it  !     Wherever  the 

blood 
Of  the  wronged  and  the  guiltless  is  crying 

to  God  ; 

Wherever  a  slave  in  his  fetters  is  pining  ; 
Wherever  the  lash  of  the  driver  is  twining  ; 
Wherever  from  kindred,  torn  rudely  apart, 
Comes  the  sorrowful  wail  of  the  broken  of 

heart  ; 

Wherever  the  shackles  of  tyranny  bind, 
In  silence  and   darkness,  the  God  -  given 

mind  ; 
There,  God  speed  it  onward  !  its  truth  will 

be  felt, 
The  bonds  shall  be  loosened,  the  iron  shall 

melt! 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


And  oh,  will  the  land  where  the  free  soul 

of  Penn 
Still  lingers  and  breathes  over  mountain  and 

glen  ; 
Will    the    land   where    a  Benezet's    spirit 

went  forth 
To  the  peeled  and  the  meted,  and  outcast 

of  Earth  ; 
Where  the  words  of  the  Charter  of  Liberty 

first 
From  the  soul  of  the  sage  and  the  patriot 

burst  ; 
Where  first  for  the  wronged  and  the  weak 

of  their  kind, 
The    Christian  and  statesman  their  efforts 

combined  ; 
Will  that   land  of  the  free  and  the  good 

wear  a  chain  ? 
Will  the  call  to  the  rescue  of  Freedom  be 

vain  ? 

No,  Ritner  !  her  "  Friends  "  at  thy  warn 
ing  shall  stand 
Erect   for   the   truth,  like  their  ancestral 

hand  ; 
Forgetting  the  feuds  and  the  strife  of  past 

time, 
Counting  coldness  injustice,  and  silence  a 

crime  ; 
Turning  back  from  the  cavil  of  creeds,  to 

unite 
Once  again  for  the  poor  in  defence  of  the 

Right  ; 
Breasting  calmly,  but  firmly,  the  full  tide 

of  Wrong, 
Overwhelmed,  but  not  borne  on  its  surges 

along  ; 
Uiiappalled  by  the  danger,  the  shame,  and 

the  pain, 
And  counting  each  trial  for  Truth  as  their 

gain  ! 

And   that   bold-hearted  yeomanry,  honest 

and  true, 

Who,  haters  of  fraud,  give  to  labor  its  due  ; 
Whose   fathers,    of    old,    sang   in   concert 

with  thine, 
On  the  banks  of  Swetara,  the  songs  of  the 

Rhine,  — 
The  German-born  pilgrims,  who  first  dared 

to  brave 
The  scorn  of  the  proud  in  the  cause  of  the 

slave  ; 
ill  the  sons  of  such  men  yield  the  lords 

of  the  South 


One  brow  for  the  brand,  for  the  padlock 

one  mouth  ? 
They  cater   to   tyrants  ?     They  rivet   the 

chain, 
Which  their  fathers  smote  off,  on  the  negro 

again  ? 

No,  never  !  one  voice,  like  the  sound  in  the 

cloud, 
When    the  roar  of  the  storm  waxes  loud 

and  more  loud, 
Wherever   the  foot    of   the  freeman  hath 

pressed 
From  the  Delaware's  marge  to  the  Lake 

of  the  West, 
On   the  South-going  breezes  shall  deepen 

and  grow 
Till  the  land  it  sweeps  over  shall  tremble 

below  ! 

The  voice  of  a  people,  uprisen,  awake, 
Pennsylvania's  watchword,  with   Freedom 

at  stake, 
Thrilling  up  from  each  valley,  flung  down 

from  each  height, 
"  Our  Country  and  Liberty  !     God  for  the 

Right  ! " 


THE   PASTORAL   LETTER 

The  General  Association  of  Congregational 
ministers  in  Massachusetts  met  at  Brookfield, 
June  27,  1837,  and  issued  a  Pastoral  Letter  to 
the  churches  under  its  care.  The  immediate 
occasion  of  it  was  the  profound  sensation  pro 
duced  by  the  recent  public  lecture  in  Massa 
chusetts  by  Angelina  and  Sarah  Grimkd,  two 
noble  women  from  South  Carolina,  who  bore 
their  testimony  against  slavery.  The  Letter 
demanded  that  "  the  perplexed  and  agitating 
subjects  which  are  now  common  amongst  us 
.  .  .  should  not  be  forced  upon  any  church 
as  matters  for  debate,  at  the  hazard  of  aliena 
tion  and  division,"  and  called  attention  to  the 
dangers  now  seeming  "  to  threaten  the  female 
character  with  widespread  and  permanent  in 
jury." 

So,  this  is  all,  —  the  utmost  reach 

Of  priestly  power  the  mind  to  fetter  ! 
When  laymen  think,  when  women  preach, 

A  war  of  words,  a  "  Pastoral  Letter  ! " 
Now,  shame  upon  ye,  parish  Popes  ! 

Was  it  thus  with  those,  your  predecessors, 
Who  sealed  with  racks,  and  fire,  and  ropes 

Their  loving-kindness  to  transgressors  ? 


THE   PASTORAL   LETTER 


277 


A  "  Pastoral  Letter,"  grave  and  dull  ; 

Alas  !  in  hoof  and  horns  and  features, 
How  different  is  your  Brookfield  bull 

From  him  who  bellows  from  St.  Peter's  ! 
Your  pastoral  rights  and  powers  from  harm, 

Think  ye,  can  words  alone  preserve  them? 
Your  wiser  fathers  taught  the  arm 

And  sword  of  temporal  power  to  serve 
them. 

Oh,  glorious  days,  when  Church  and  State 

Were  wedded  by  your  spiritual  fathers  ! 
And  on  submissive  shoulders  sat 

Your  Wilsons  and  your  Cotton  Mathers. 
No  vile  "  itinerant "  then  could  mar 

The  beauty  of  your  tranquil  Zion, 
But  at  his  peril  of  the  scar 

Of  hangman's  whip  and  branding-iron. 

Then,  wholesome  laws  relieved  the  Church 

Of  heretic  and  mischief-maker, 
And  priest  and  bailiff  joined  in  search, 

By  turns,  of  Papist,  witch,  and  Quaker  ! 
The  stocks  were  at  each  church's  door, 

The  gallows  stood  on  Boston  Common, 
A  Papist's  ears  the  pillory  bore,  — 

The  gallows-rope,  a  Quaker  woman  ! 

Your  fathers  dealt  not  as  ye  deal 

With  "  non-professing  "  frantic  teachers  ; 

They  bored  the  tongue  with  red-hot  steel, 
And  flayed  the  backs  of  "  female  preach- 

GPS- 

Old  Hampton,  had  her  fields  a  tongue, 
And  Sale m's  streets  could  tell  their  story, 

Of  fainting  woman  dragged  along, 

Gashed  by  the  whip  accursed  and  gory  ! 

And  will  ye  ask  me,  why  this  taunt 

Of  memories  sacred  from  the  scorner  ? 
And  why  with  reckless  hand  I  plant 

A  nettle  on  the  graves  ye  honor  ? 
Not  to  reproach  New  England's  dead 

This  record  from  the  past  I  summon. 
Of  manhood  to  the  scaffold  led, 

And  suffering  and  heroic  woman. 

No,  for  yourselves  alone,  I  turn 

The  pages  of  intolerance  over, 
That,  in  their  spirit,  dark  and  stern, 
^  Ye  haply  may  your  own  discover  ! 
For,  if  ye  claim  the  "pastoral  right" 

To  silence  Freedom's  voice  of  warning, 
And  from  your  precincts  shut  the  light 

Of  Freedom's  day  around  ye  dawning  ; 


If  when  an  earthquake  voice  of  power 

And  signs  in  earth  and  heaven  are  show 
ing 
That  forth,  in  its  appointed  hour, 

The  Spirit  of  the  Lord  is  going  I 
And,  with  that  Spirit,  Freedom's  light 

On  kindred,  tongue,  and  people  break 
ing, 
Whose  slumbering  millions,  at  the  sight, 

In  glory  and  in  strength  are  waking ! 

When  for  the  sighing  of  the  poor, 

And  for  the  needy,  God  hath  risen, 
And  chains  are  breaking,  and  a  door 

Is  opening  for  the  souls  in  prison  ! 
If  then  ye  would,  with  puny  hands, 

Arrest  the  very  work  of  Heaven, 
And  bind  anew  the  evil  bands 

Which  God's   right  arm  of  power  hath 
riven  ; 

What  marvel  that,  in  many  a  mind, 

Those  darker  deeds  of  bigot  madness 
Are  closely  with  your  own  combined, 

Yet  "  less  in  anger  than  in  sadness  "  ? 
What  marvel,  if  the  people  learn 

To  claim  the  right  of  free  opinion  ? 
What  marvel,  if  at  times  they  spurn 

The  ancient  yoke  of  your  dominion  ? 

A  glorious  remnant  linger  yet, 

Whose  lips  are  wet  at  Freedom's  foun* 

tains, 
The  coming  of  whose  welcome  feet 

Is  beautiful  upon  our  mountains  ! 
Men,  who  the  gospel  tidings  bring 

Of  Liberty  and  Love  forever, 
Whose  joy  is  an  abiding  spring, 

Whose  peace  is  as  a  gentle  river ! 

But  ye,  who  scorn  the  thrilling  tale 

Of  Carolina's  high-souled  daughters, 
Which  echoes  here  the  mournful  wail 

Of  sorrow  from  Edisto's  waters, 
Close  while  ye  may  the  public  ear, 

With   malice  vex,   with   slander    wound 

them, 
The  pure  and  good  shall  throng  to  hear, 

And  tried   and  manly  hearts   surround 
them. 

Oh,  ever  may  the  power  which  led 
Their  way  to  such  a  fiery  trial, 

And  strengthened  womanhood  to  tread 
The  wine-press  of  such  self-denial, 


ANTI-SLAVERY    POEMS 


Be  round  them  in  an  evil  land, 

With   wisdom  and  with   strength  from 

Heaven, 
With  Miriam's  voice,  and  Judith's  hand, 

And  Deborah's  song,  for  triumph  given  ! 

And  what  are  ye  who  strive  with  God 

Against  the  ark  of  His  salvation, 
Moved  by  the  breath  of  prayer  abroad, 

With  blessings  for  a  dying  nation  ? 
What,  but  the  stubble  and  the  hay 

To  perish,  even  as  flax  consuming, 
With  all  that  bars  His  glorious  way, 

Before  the  brightness  of  His  coming  ? 

And  thou,  sad  Angel,  who  sc  long 

Hast  waited  for  the  glorious  token, 
That  Earth  from  all  her  bonds  of  wrong 

To  liberty  and  light  has  broken,  — 
Angel  of  Freedom  !  soon  to  thee 

The  sounding  trumpet  shall  be  given, 
And  over  Earth's  full  jubilee 

Shall  deeper  joy  be  felt  in  Heaven  ! 


HYMN 

Written  for  the  celebration  of  the  third  an 
niversary  of  British  emancipation,  at  the  Broad 
way  Tabernacle,  New  York,  first  of  August, 
1837.  [Originally  entitled  Lines.] 

O  HOLY  FATHER  !  just  and  true 

Are  all  Thy  works  and  words  and  ways, 
And  unto  Thee  alone  are  due 

Thanksgiving  and  eternal  praise  ! 
As  children  of  Thy  gracious  care, 

We  veil  the  eye,  we  bend  the  knee, 
With  broken  words  of  praise  and  prayer, 

Father  and  God,  we  come  to  Thee. 

For  Thou  hast  heard,  O  God  of  Right, 

The  sighing  of  the  island  slave  ; 
And  stretched  for  him  the  arm  of  might, 

Not  shortened  that  it  could  not  save. 
The  laborer  sits  beneath  his  vine, 

The  shackled  soul  and  hand  are  free  ; 
Thanksgiving  !  for  the  work  is  Thine  ! 

Praise  !  for  the  blessing  is  of  Thee  ! 

And  oh,  we  feel  Thy  presence  here, 
Thy  awful  arm  in  judgment  bare  ! 

Thine  eye  hath  seen  the  bondman's  tear  ; 
Thine    ear   hath   heard   the   bondman's 
prayer. 


Praise  !  for  the  pride  of  man  is  low, 
The  counsels  of  the  wise  are  naught, 

The  fountains  of  repentance  flow  ; 

What  hath  our  God  in  mercy  wrought  ? 

Speed  on  Thy  work,  Lord  God  of  Hosts  ! 

And  when  the  bondman's  chain  is  riven, 
And  swells  from  all  our  guilty  coasts 

The  anthem  of  the  free  to  Heaven, 
Oh,  not  to  those  whom  Thou  hast  led, 

As  with  Thy  cloud  and  fire  before, 
But  unto  Thee,  in  fear  and  dread, 

Be  praise  and  glory  evermore. 


THE    FAREWELL 

OF  A  VIRGINIA  SLAVE  MOTHER  TO  HER 
DAUGHTERS  SOLD  INTO  SOUTHERU 
BONDAGE 

GONE,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Where  the  slave-whip  ceaseless  swings, 
Where  the  noisome  insect  stings, 
Where  the  fever  demon  strews 
Poison  with  the  falling  dews, 
Where  the  sickly  sunbeams  glare 
Through  the  hot  and  misty  air  ; 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  i 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
There  no  mother's  eye  is  near  them, 
There  no  mother's  ear  can  hear  them  ; 
Never,  when  the  torturing  lash 
Seams  their  back  with  many  a  gash, 
Shall  a  mother's  kindness  bless  them, 
Or  a  mother's  arms  caress  them. 
Gone,  gone,  — sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
Oh,  when  weary,  sad,  and  slow, 
From  the  fields  at  night  they  go, 
Faint  with  toil,  and  racked  with  pain, 
To  their  cheerless  homes  again, 
There  no  brother's  voice  shall  greet  them; 
There  no  father's  welcome  meet  them. 


PENNSYLVANIA   HALL 


279 


Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 

From  the  tree  whose  shadow  lay 

On  their  childhood's  place  of  play  ; 

From  the  cool  spring  where  they  drank  ; 

Rock,  and  hill,  and  rivulet  bank  ; 

From  the  solemn  house  of  prayer, 

And  the  holy  counsels  there  ; 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 

To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone  ; 

Toiling  through  the  weary  day, 

And  at  night  the  spoiler's  prey. 

Oh,  that  they  had  earlier  died, 

Sleeping  calmly,  side  by  side, 

Where  the  tyrant's  power  is  o'er, 

And  the  fetter  galls  no  more  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone. 
By  the  holy  love  He  beareth  ; 
By  the  bruised  reed  He  spareth  ; 
Oh,  may  He,  to  whom  alone 
All  their  cruel  wrongs  are  known, 
Still  their  hope  and  refuge  prove, 
With  a  more  than  mother's  love. 
Gone,  gone,  —  sold  and  gone, 
To  the  rice-swamp  dank  and  lone, 
From  Virginia's  hills  and  waters  ; 
Woe  is  me,  my  stolen  daughters  ! 

PENNSYLVANIA   HALL 

Read  at  the  dedication  of  Pennsylvania  Hall, 
Philadelphia,  May  15,  }  838.  The  building-  was 
erected  by  an  association  of  gentlemen,  irre 
spective  of  sect  or  party.  "  that  the  citizens  of 
Philadelphia  should  possess  a  room  wherein 
the  principles  of  Liberty,  and  Equality  of  Civil 
Rights,  could  be  freely  discussed,  and  the  evils 
of  slavery  fearlessly  portrayed."  On  the  even 
ing  of  the  17th  it  was  burned  by  a  mob,  de 


stroying  the  office  of  the  Pennsylvania  Free 
man,  of  which  I  was  editor,  and  with  it  my 
books  and  papers. 

NOT  with  the  splendors  of  the  days  of  old, 
The  spoil  of  nations,  and  barbaric  gold  ; 
No    weapons    wrested   from   the    fields  of 

blood, 

Where  dark  and  stern  the  unyielding  Ro 
man  stood, 

And  the  proud  eagles  of  his  cohorts  saw 
A  world,  war-wasted,  crouching  to  his  law  ^ 
Nor  blazoned  car,  nor  banners  floating  gay. 
Like  those  which  swept  along  the  Appian 

Way, 

When,  to  the  welcome  of  imperial  Rome, 
The  victor  warrior  came  in  triumph  home, 
And  trumpet  peal,  and  shoutings  wild  and 

high, 

Stirred  the  blue  quiet  of  the  Italian  sky  ; 
But  calm  and  grateful,  prayerful  and  sin 
cere, 

As  Christian  freemen  only,  gathering  here, 
We  dedicate  our  fair  and  lofty  Hall, 
Pillar  and  arch,  entablature  and  wall, 
As  Virtue's  shrine,  as  Liberty's  abode, 
Sacred  to  Freedom,  and  to  Freedom's  God  ! 
Far   statelier   Halls,  'neath  brighter  skies 

than  these, 

Stood  darkly  mirrored  in  the  ^Egean  seas, 
Pillar  and  shrine,  and  life-like  statues  seen, 
Graceful  and  pure,  the  marble  shafts  be 
tween  ; 

Where  glorious  Athens  from  her  rocky  hill 
Saw  Art  and  Beauty  subject  to  her  will  ; 
And   the    chaste   temple,  and   the   classic 

grove, 

The  hall  of  sages,  and  the  bowers  of  love, 
Arch,  fane,  and  column,  graced  the  shores, 

and  gave 

Their  shadows  to  the  blue  Saronic  wave  ; 
And  statelier  rose  on  Tiber's  winding  side, 
The  Pantheon's  dome,  the  Coliseum's  pride, 
The  Capitol,  whose  arches  backward  flung 
The   deep,   clear   cadence   of   the   Roman 

tongue, 
Whence  stern  decrees,  like  words  of  fate, 

went  forth 

To  the  awed  nations  of  a  conquered  earth, 
Where    the   proud   Cffisars   in  their  glory 

came, 
And    Brutus    lightened   from   his    lips   oi 

flame  ! 

Yet  in  the  porches  of  Athena's  halls, 
And  in  the  shadow  of  her  stately  walls. 


28o 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Lurked  the  sad  bondman,  and  his  tears  of 

woe 

Wet  the  cold  marble  with  unheeded  flow  ; 
And  fetters  clanked  beneath  the  silver 

dome 

Of  the  proud  Pantheon  of  imperious  Rome. 
Oh,  not  for  him,  the  chained  and  stricken 

slave, 

By  Tiber's  shore,  or  blue  JSgina's  wave, 
In  the  thronged  forum,  or  the  sages'  seat, 
The  bold  lip  pleaded,  and  the  warm  heart 

beat  ; 

No  soul  of  sorrow  melted  at  his  pain, 
No  tear  of  pity  rusted  on  his  chain  ! 

But  this  fair  Hall  to  Truth  and  Freedom 

given, 
Pledged  to  the  Right  before  all  Earth  and 

Heaven, 

A  free  arena  for  the  strife  of  mind, 
To  caste,  or  sect,  or  color  unconfined, 
Shall    thrill  with  echoes  such  as  ne'er  of 

old 

From  Roman  hall  or  Grecian  temple  rolled  ; 
Thoughts  shall  find  utterance  such  as  never 

yet 

The  Propylea  or  the  Forum  met. 
Beneath  its  roof  no  gladiator's  strife 
Shall  win  applauses  with  the  waste  of  life  ; 
No  lordly  lictor  urge  the  barbarous  game, 
No  wanton  Lais  glory  in  her  shame. 
But  here  the  tear  of  sympathy  shall  flow, 
As  the  ear  listens  to  the  tale  of  woe  ; 
Here  in  stern  judgment  of  the  oppressor's 

wrong 
Shall  strong  rebukings  thrill  on  Freedom's 

tongue, 

No  partial  justice  hold  th'  unequal  scale, 
No  pride  of  caste  a  brother's  rights  assail, 
No  tyrant's  mandates  echo  from  this  wall, 
Holy  to  Freedom  and  the  Rights  of  All  ! 
But  a  fair  field,  where  mind  may  close  with 

mind, 

Free  as  the  sunshine  and  the  chainless  wind  ; 
Where  the  high  trust  is  fixed  on  Truth 

alone, 
And  bonds  and  fetters  from  the  soul  are 

thrown  ; 
Where  wealth,  and  rank,  and  worldly  pomp, 

and  might, 
iield  to  the  presence  of  the  True  and  Right. 

And  fitting  is  it  that  this  Hall  should  stand 
Where  Pennsylvania's  Founder  led  his  band, 
From  thy  blue  waters,  Delaware  !  —  to  press 


The  virgin  verdure  of  the  wilderness. 

Here,  where  all  Europe  with  amazement 
saw 

The  soul's  high  freedom  trammelled  by  nc 
law  ; 

Here,  where  the  fierce  and  warlike  forest- 
men 

Gathered,  in  peace,  around  the  home  of 
Penn, 

Awed  by  the  weapons  Love  alone  had  given 

Drawn  from  the  holy  armory  of  Heaven  ; 

Where  Nature's  voice  against  the  bondman's 
wrong 

First  found  an  earnest  and  indignant 
tongue  ; 

Whe/e  Lay's  bold  message  to  the  proud 
was  borne  ; 

And  Keith's  rebuke,  and  Franklin's  manly 
scorn  ! 

Fitting  it  is  that  here,  where  Freedom  first 

From  her  fair  feet  shook  off  the  Old  World's 
dust, 

Spread  her  white  pinions  to  our  Western 
blast, 

And  her  free  tresses  to  our  sunshine  cast; 

One  Hall  should  rise  redeemed  from  Sla 
very's  ban, 

One  Temple  sacred  to  the  Rights  of  Man  ! 

Oh  !  if  the  spirits  of  the  parted  come, 
Visiting  angels,  to  their  olden  home  ; 
If  the  dead  fathers  of  the  land  look  forth 
From  their  fair  dwellings,  to  the  things  of 

earth, 

Is  it  a  dream,  that  with  their  eyes  of  love, 
They  gaze  now  on  us  from  the  bowers  above? 
Lay's  ardent  soul,  and  Benezet  the  mild, 
Steadfast  in  faith,  yet  gentle  as  a  child, 
Meek-hearted  Woolman,  and  that  brother- 
band, 

The  sorrowing  exiles  from  their  "  Father 
land," 
Leaving  their  homes  in  Krieshiem's  bowers 

of  vine, 

And  the  blue  beauty  of  their  glorious  Rhine, 
To  seek  amidst  our  solemn  depths  of  wood 
Freedom  from  man,  and  holy  peace  with 

God; 

Who  first  of  all  their  testimonial  gave 
Against  the  oppressor,  for  the  outcast  slave. 
Is  it  a  dream  that  such  as  these  look  down. 
And    with    their    blessing    our    rejoicings 

crown  ? 

Let  us  rejoice,  that  while  the  pulpit's  dooi 
Is  barred  against  the  pleaders  for  the  poor  • 


THE  NEW  YEAR 


281 


While  the  Church,  wrangling  upon  points 

of  faith, 

Forgets  her  bondmen  suffering  unto  death  ; 
While  crafty  Traffic  and  the  lust  of  Gain 
Unite  to  forge  Oppression's  triple  chain, 
One  door  is  open,  and  one  Temple  free, 
As  a  resting-place  for  hunted  Liberty  ! 
Where    men  may    speak,  unshackled   and 

unawed, 
High  words  of  Truth,  for  Freedom  and  for 

God. 
A.nd  when  that  truth  its  perfect  work  hath 

done, 
And  rich  with  blessings  o'er  our  land  hath 

gone  ; 
When  not  a  slave  beneath  his   yoke  shall 

pine, 

From  broad  Potomac  to  the  far  Sabine  : 
When  unto  angel  lips  at  last  is  given 
The  silver  trump  of  Jubilee  in  Heaven  f. 
And   from    Virginia's    plains,    Kentucky's 

shades, 

And  through  the  dim  Floridian  everglades, 
Rises,  to  meet  that  angel-trumpet's  sound, 
The  voice  of  millions  from  their  chains  un 
bound  ; 

Then,  though  this  Hall  be  crumbling  in  de 
cay, 
Its  strong  walls  blending  with  the  common 

clay, 
Yet  round  the  ruins  of  its  strength  shall 

stand 

The  best  and  noblest  of  a  ransomed  land  — 
Pilgrims,  like  these  who  throng  around  the 

shrine 

Of  Mecca,  or  of  holy  Palestine  ! 
A  prouder  glory  shall  that  ruin  own 
Than  that  which  lingers  round  the  Parthe 
non. 

Here  shall  the  child  of  after  years  be  taught 
The   works  of  Freedom  which  his  fathers 

wrought  ; 

Told  of  the  trials  of  the  present  hour, 
Our  weary  strife  with  prejudice  and  power  ; 
How  the  high  errand   quickened  woman's 

soul, 

And  touched  her  lip  as  with  a  living  coal  ; 
How  Freedom's  martyrs  kept  their  lofty 

faith 

True  and  unwavering,  unto  bonds  and  death; 
The  pencil's   art   shall   sketch  the  ruined 

Hall, 

The  Muses'  garland  crown  its  aged  wall, 
And  History's  pen  for  after  times  record 
Its  consecration  unto  Freedom's  God  1 


THE    NEW   YEAR 

Addressed  to  the  Patrons  of  the  Pennsylvania 
Freeman. 

THE  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore, 
The  echo  fading  from  the  chime  ; 

Again  the  shadow  moveth  o'er 
The  dial-plate  of  time  ! 

O  seer-seen  Angel  !  waiting  now 
With  weary  feet  on  sea  and  shore, 

Impatient  for  the  last  dread  vow 
That  time  shall  be  no  more  ! 

Once  more  across  thy  sleepless  eye 
The  semblance  of  a  smile  has  passed  • 

The  year  departing  leaves  more  nigh 
Time's  fearfullest  and  last. 

Oh,  in  that  dying  year  hath  been 
The  sum  of  all  since  time  began  •, 

The  birth  and  death,  the  joy  and  pain, 
Of  Nature  and  of  Man. 

Spring,  with  her  change  of  sun  and  shower, 
And   streams    released     from    Winter's 
chain, 

And  bursting  bud,  and  opening  flower, 
And  greenly  growing  grain  ; 

And  Summer's  shade,  and  sunshine  warm, 
And  rainbows  o'er  her  hill-tops  bowed, 

And  voices  in  her  rising  storm  ; 
God  speaking  from  His  cloud  ! 

And  Autumn's  fruits  and  clustering  sheaves, 
And  soft,  warm  days  of  golden  light, 

The  glory  of  her  forest  leaves, 
And  harvest-moon  at  night ; 

And  Winter  with  her  leafless  grove, 

And  prisoned  stream,  and  drifting  snow, 

The  brilliance  of  her  heaven  above 
And  of  her  earth  below  : 

And  man,  in  whom  an  angel's  mind 
With  earth's  low  instincts  finds  abode, 

The  highest  of  the  links  which  bind 
Brute  nature  to  her  God  ; 

His  infant  eye  hath  seen  the  light, 

His  childhood's  merriest  laughter  rung, 

And  active  sports  to  manlier  might 
The  nerves  of  boyhood  strung  ! 


282 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


And  quiet  love,  and  passion's  fires, 

Have    soothed  or  burned  in  manhood's 
breast, 

And  lofty  aims  and  low  desires 
By  turns  disturbed  his  rest. 

The  wailing  of  the  newly-born 

Has  mingled  with  the  funeral  knell  ; 

And  o'er  the  dying's  ear  has  gone 
The  merry  marriage-bell. 

And  Wealth  has  filled  his  halls  with  mirth, 
While  Want,  in  many  a  humble  shed, 

Toiled,  shivering  by  her  cheerless  hearth, 
The  live-long  night  for  bread. 

And  worse  than  all,  the  human  slave, 
The  sport  of  lust,  and  pride,  and  scorn  ! 

Plucked  off  the  crown  his  Maker  gave, 
His  regal  manhood  gone  ! 

Oh,  still,  my  country  !  o'er  thy  plains, 
Blackened  with  slavery's  blight  and  ban, 

That  human  chattel  drags  his  chains, 
An  uncreated  man  ! 

And  still,  where'er  to  sun  and  breeze, 
My  country,  is  thy  flag  unrolled, 

With  scorn,  the  gazing  stranger  sees 
A  stain  on  every  fold. 

Oh,  tear  the  gorgeous  emblem  down  ! 

It  gathers  scorn  from  every  eye, 
And  despots  smile  and  good  men  frown 

Whene'er  it  passes  by. 

Shame  !  shame  !  its  starry  splendors  glow 
Above  the  slaver's  loathsome  jail  ; 

Its  folds  are  ruffling  even  now 
His  crimson  flag  of  sale. 

Still  round  our  country's  proudest  hall 
The  trade  in  human  flesh  is  driven, 

And  at  each  careless  hammer-fall 
A  human  heart  is  riven. 

And  this,  too,  sanctioned  by  the  men 
Vested  with  power  to  shield  the  right, 

And  throw  each  vile  and  robber  den 
Wide  open  to  the  light. 

Yet,  shame  upon  them  !  there  they  sit, 
Men  of  the  North,  subdued  and  still  ; 

Meek,  pliant  poltroons,  only  fit 
To  work  a  master's  will. 


Sold,  bargained  off  for  Southern  votes, 
A  passive  herd  of  .Northern  mules, 

Just    braying     through     their    purchased 

throats 
Whate'er  their  owner  rules. 

And  he,  the  basest  of  the  base, 

The  vilest  of  the  vile,  whose  name, 

Embalmed  in  infinite  disgrace, 
Is  deathless  in  its  shame  ! 

A  tool,  to  bolt  the  people's  door 

Against  the  people  clamoring  there, 

An  ass,  to  trample  on  their  floor 
A  people's  right  of  prayer  ! 

Nailed  to  his  self-made  gibbet  fast, 
Self-pilloried  to  the  public  view, 

A  mark  for  every  passing  blast 
Of  scorn  to  whistle  through  ; 

There  let  him  hang,  and  hear  the  boast 
Of  Southrons  o'er  their  pliant  tool, — 

A  new  Stylites  on  his  post, 
"  Sacred  to  ridicule  !  " 

Look  we  at  home  !  our  noble  hall, 
To  Freedom's  holy  purpose  given, 

Now  rears  its  black  and  ruined  wall, 
Beneath  the  wintry  heaven, 

Telling  the  story  of  its  doom, 

The  fiendish  mob,  the  prostrate  law, 

The  fiery  jet  through  midnight's  gloom, 
Our  gazing  thousands  saw. 

Look  to  our  State  !  the  poor  man's  right 
Torn  from  him  :  and  the  sons  of  those 

Whose  blood  in  Freedom's  sternest  fight 
Sprinkled  the  Jersey  snows, 

Outlawed  within  the  land  of  Penn, 

That  Slavery's  guilty  fears  might  cease, 

And  those  whom  God  created  men 
Toil  on  as  brutes  in  peace. 

Yet  o'er  the  blackness  of  the  storm 
A  bow  of  promise  bends  on  high, 

And  gleams  of  sunshine,  soft  and  warm, 
Break  through  our  clouded  sky. 

East,  West,  and  North,  the  shout  is  heard, 
Of  freemen  rising  for  the  right  : 

Each  valley  hath  its  rallying  word, 
Each  hill  its  signal  light. 


THE  RELIC 


283 


O'er  Massachusetts'  rocks  of  gray 

The     strengthening    light    of    freedom 
shines, 

Rhode  Island's  Narragansett  Bay, 
And  Vermont's  snow-hung  pines  ! 

From  Hudson's  frowning  palisades 
To  Alleghany's  laurelled  crest, 

O'er  lakes  and  prairies,  streams  and  glades, 
It  shines  upon  the  West. 

Speed  on  the  light  to  those  who  dwell 
In  Slavery's  land  of  woe  and  sin, 

And  through  the  blackness  of  that  Hell 
Let  Heaven's  own  light  break  in. 

So  shall  the  Southern  conscience  quake 
Before  that  light  poured  full  and  strong, 

So  shall  the  Southern  heart  awake 
To  all  the  bondman's  wrong. 

And  from  that  rich  and  sunny  land 
The  song  of  grateful  millions  rise, 

Like  that  of  Israel's  ransomed  band 
Beneath  Arabia's  skies  : 

And  all  who  now  are  bound  beneath 
Our  banner's  shade,  our  eagle's  wing, 

From  Slavery's  night  of  moral  death 
To  light  and  life  shall  spring. 

Broken  the  bondman's  chain,  and  gone 
The  master's  guilt,  and  hate,  and  fear, 

And  unto  both  alike  shall  dawn 
A  New  and  Happy  Year. 

THE  RELIC 

Written  on  receiving1  a  cane  wrought  from  a 
fragment  of  the  wood-work  of  Pennsylvania 
Hall  which  the  fire  had  spared. 

TOKEN  of  friendship  true  and  tried, 
From  one  whose  fiery  heart  of  youth 

With  mine  has  beaten,  side  by  side, 
For  Liberty  and  Truth  ; 

With  honest  pride  the  gift  I  take, 

And  prize  it  for  the  giver's  sake. 

But  not  alone  because  it  tells 

Of  generous  hand  and  heart  sincere  ; 

Around  that  gift  of  friendship  dwells 
A  memory  doubly  dear  ; 

Earth's  noblest  aim,  man's  holiest  thought, 

With  that  memorial  frail  inwrought  ! 


Pure  thoughts  and  sweet  like  flowers  unfold, 
And  precious  memories  round  it  cling, 

Even  as  the  Prophet's  rod  of  old 
In  beauty  blossoming  : 

And  buds  of  feeling,  pure  and  good, 

Spring  from  its  cold  unconscious  wood. 

Relic  of  Freedom's  shrine  !  a  brand 
Plucked  from  its  burning  !  let  it  be 

Dear  as  a  jewel  from  the  hand 
Of  a  lost  friend  to  me  ! 

Flower  of  a  perished  garland  left, 

Of  life  and  beauty  unbereft ! 

Oh,  if  the  young  enthusiast  bears, 
O'er  weary  waste  and  sea,  the  stone 

Which  crumbled  from  the  Forum's  stairs, 
Or  round  the  Parthenon  ; 

Or  olive-bough  from  some  wild  tree 

Hung  over  old  Thermopyla3  : 

If  leaflets  from  some  hero's  tomb, 

Or  moss-wreath  torn  from  ruins  hoary  ; 

Or  faded  flowers  whose  sisters  bloom 
On  fields  renowned  in  story  ; 

Or  fragment  from  the  Alhambra's  crest, 

Or  the  gray  rock  by  Druids  blessed  ; 

Sad  Erin's  shamrock  greenly  growing 
Where  Freedom  led  her  stalwart  kern, 

Or  Scotia's  "  rough  bur  thistle  "  blowing 
On  Bruce's  Bannockburn  ; 

Or  Runnymede's  wild  English  rose, 

Or  lichen  plucked  from  Sempach's  snows  ! 

If  it  be  true  that  things  like  these 

To  heart  and  eye  bright  visions  bring, 

Shall  not  far  holier  memories 
To  this  memorial  cling  ? 

Which  needs  no  mellowing  mist  of  time 

To  hide  the  crimson  stains  of  crime  ! 

Wreck  of  a  temple,  unprofaned  ; 

Of  courts  where  Peace  with  Freedom  trod 
Lifting  on  high,  with  hands  unstained, 

Thanksgiving  unto  God  ; 
Where  Mercy's  voice  of  love  was  pleading 
For  human  hearts  in  bondage  bleeding  ! 

Where,  midst  the  sound  of  rushing  feet 
And  curses  on  the  night-air  flung, 

That  pleading  voice  rose  calm  and  sweet 
From  woman's  earnest  tongue  ; 

And  Riot  turned  his  scowling  glance, 

Awed,  from  her  tranquil  countenance ! 


284 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


That  temple  now  in  ruin  lies  ! 

The  tire-stain  on  its  shattered  wall, 
And  open  to  the  changing  skies 

Its  black  and  roofless  hall, 
It  stands  before  a  nation's  sight, 
A  gravestone  over  buried  Right  ! 

But  from  that  ruin,  as  of  old, 

The  fire-scorched  stones  themselves  are 

crying, 
And  from  their  ashes  white  and  cold 

Its  timbers  are  replying  J 
A  voice  which  slavery  cannot  kill 
Speaks  from  the  crumbling  arches  still ! 

And  even  this  relic  from  thy  shrine, 

O  holy  Freedom  !  hath  to  me 
A  potent  power,  a  voice  and  sign 

To  testify  of  thee  ; 
And,  grasping  it,  methinks  I  feel 
A  deeper  faith,  a  stronger  zeal. 

And  not  unlike  that  mystic  rod, 

Of  old  stretched  o'er  the  Egyptian  wave, 
Which  opened,  in  the  strength  of  God, 

A  pathway  for  the  slave, 
It  yet  may  point  the  bondman's  way, 
And  turn  the  spoiler  from  his  prey. 


THE  WORLD'S  CONVENTION 

OF    THE    FRIENDS     OF    EMANCIPATION, 
HELD    IN    LONDON    IN    1840 

Joseph  Sturge,  the  founder  of  the  British 
and  Foreign  Anti  -  Slavery  Society,  proposed 
the  calling  of  a  world's  anti-slavery  convention, 
and  the  proposal  was  promptly  seconded  by 
the  American  Anti-Slavery  Society.  The  call 
was  adressed  to  "friends  of  the  slave  of  every 
nation  and  of  every  clime." 

YES,  let  them  gather  !     Summon  forth 
The  pledged  philanthropy  of  Earth. 
From  every  land,  whose  hills  have  heard 
The  bugle  blast  of  Freedom  waking  ; 
Or  shrieking  of  her  symbol-bird 

From  out  his  cloudy  eyrie  breaking  : 
Where  Justice  hath  one  worshipper, 
Or  truth  one  altar  built  to  her  ; 
Where'er  a  human  eye  is  weeping 

O'er  wrongs  which  Earth's  sad  children 

know  ; 
Where'er  a  single  heart  is  keeping 

Its  prayerful  watch  with  human  woe  : 


Thence   let    them   come,    and   greet   each 

other, 
And  know  in  each  a  friend  and  brother  ! 

Yes,  let  them  come  !  from  each  green  vale 

Where  England's  old  baronial  halls 
Still  bear  upon  their  storied  walls 
The  grim  crusader's  rusted  mail, 
Battered  by  Paynim  spear  and  brand 
On  Malta's  rock  or  Syria's  sand  ! 
And  mouldering  pennon-staves  once  set 

Within  the  soil  of  Palestine, 
By  Jordan  and  Geimesaret  ; 

Or,  borne  with  England's  battle  line, 
O'er  Acre's  shattered  turrets  stooping, 
Or,  midst  the  camp  their  banners  drooping, 

With  dews  from  hallowed  Hermon  wet, 
A  holier  summons  now  is  given 
Than  that  gray  hermit's  voice  of  old, 
Which  unto  all  the  winds  of  heaven 

The  banners  of  the  Cross  unrolled  ! 
Not  for  the  long-deserted  shrine  ; 

Not  for  the  dull  unconscious  sod, 
Which  tells  not  by  one  lingering  sign 

That  there  the  hope  of  Israel  trod  ; 
But  for  that  truth,  for  which  alone 

In  pilgrim  eyes  are  sanctified 
The  garden  moss,  the  mountain  stone, 
Whereon  His  holy  sandals  pressed,  — 
The  fountain  which  His  lip  hath  blessed,  — . 
Whate'er  hath  touched  His  garment's  hem 

At  Bethany  or  Bethlehem, 

Or  Jordan's  river-side. 
For  Freedom  in  the  name  of  Him 

Who  came  to  raise  Earth's  drooping  poor, 
To  break  the  chain  from  every  limb, 
The  bolt  from  every  prison  door  ! 
For  these,  o'er  all  the  earth  hath  passed 
An  ever-deepening  trumpet  blast, 
As  if  ail  angel's  breath  had  lent 
Its  vigor  to  the  instrument. 

And  Wales,  from  Snowden's  mountain  wall, 
Shall  startle  at  that  thrilling  call, 

As  if  she  heard  her  bards  again  ; 
And  Erin's  "  harp  on  Tara's  wall  " 

Give  out  its  ancient  strain, 
Mirthful  and  sweet,  yet  sad  withal,  — • 

The  melody  which  Erin  loves, 
When  o'er  that  harp,  'mid  bursts  of  glad 

ness 
And  slogan  cries  and  lyke-wake  sadness, 

The  hand  of  her  O'Connell  moves  ! 
Scotland,  from  lake  and  tarn  and  rill, 
And  mountain  hold,  and  heathery  hill, 


THE  WORLD'S   CONVENTION 


Shall  catch  and  echo  back  the  note, 
As  if  she  Heard  upon  the  air 
Once  more  her  Cameronian's  prayer 

And  song  of  Freedom  float. 
And  cheering  echoes  shall  reply 
From  each  remote  dependency, 
Where  Britain's  mighty  sway  is  known, 
In  tropic  sea  or  frozen  zone  ; 
Where'er  her  sunset  flag  is  furling, 
Or  morning  gun-fire's  smoke  is  curling  ; 
From  Indian  Bengal's  groves  of  palm 
And  rosy  fields  and  gales  of  balm, 
Where  Eastern  pomp  and  power  are  rolled 
Through  regal  Ava's  gates  of  gold  ; 
And  from  the  lakes  and  ancient  woods 
And  dim  Canadian  solitudes, 
Whence,  sternly  from  her  rocky  throne, 
Queen  of  the  North,  Quebec  looks  down  ; 
And  from  those  bright  and  ransomed  Isles 
Where  all  unwonted  Freedom  smiles. 
And  the  dark  laborer  still  retains 
The  scar  of  slavery's  broken  chains  ! 

From  the  hoar  Alps,  which  sentinel 
The  gateways  of  the  land  of  Tell, 
Where  morning's  keen  and  earliest  glance 

On  Jura's  rocky  wall  is  thrown, 
And  from  the  olive  bowers  of  France 

And  vine  groves  garlanding  the  Rhone,  — 
"  Friends  of  the  Blacks,"  as  true  and  tried 
As  those  who  stood  by  Oge's  side, 
And  heard  the  Haytien's  tale  of  wrong, 
Shall  gather  at  that  summons  strong  ; 
Broglie,  Passy,  and  he  whose  song 
Breathed  over  Syria's  holy  sod, 
And  in  the  paths  which  Jesus  trod, 
And  murmured  midst  the  hills  which  hem 
Crownless  and  sad  Jerusalem, 
Hath  echoes  wheresoe'er  the  tone 
Of  Israel's  prophet-lyre  is  known. 

Still  let  them  come  ;  from  Quito's  walls, 

And  from  the  Orinoco's  tide, 
From  Lima's  Inca-haunted  halls, 
From  Santa  Fe  and  Yucatan,  — 

Men  who  by  swart  Guerrero's  side 
Proclaimed  the  deathless  rights  of  man, 

Broke  every  bond  and  fetter  off, 

And  hailed  in  every  sable  serf 
A  free  and  brother  Mexican  ! 
Chiefs  who  across  the  Andes'  chain 

Have  followed  Freedom's  flowing  pennon. 
And  seen  on  Junin's  fearful  plain, 
[rlare  o'er  the  broken  ranks  of  Spain 

The  fire-burst  of  Bolivar's  cannon  ! 


And  Hayti,  from  her  mountain  land, 

Shall  send  the  sons  of  those  who  hurled 
Defiance  from  her  blazing  strand, 
The  war-gage  from  her  Petion's  hand, 
Alone  against  a  hostile  world. 

Nor  all  unmindful,  thou,  the  while, 
Land  of  the  dark  and  mystic  Nile  ! 

Thy  Moslem  mercy  yet  may  shame 

All  tyrants  of  a  Christian  name, 
When  in  the  shade  of  Gizeh's  pile, 
Or,  where,  from  Abyssinian  hills 
El  Gerek's  upper  fountain  fills, 
Or  where  from  Mountains  of  the  Moon 
El  Abiad  bears  his  watery  boon, 
Where'er  thy  lotus  blossoms  swim 

Within  their  ancient  hallowed  waters  ; 
Where'er  is  heard  the  Coptic  hymn, 

Or  song  of  Nubia's  sable  daughters  ; 
The  curse  of  slavery  and  the  crime, 
Thy  bequest  from  remotest  time, 
At  thy  dark  Mehemet's  decree 
Forevermore  shall  pass  from  thee  ; 

And  chains  forsake  each  captive's  limb 
Of  all  those  tribes,  whose  hills  around 
Have  echoed  back  the  cymbal  sound 

And  victor  horn  of  Ibrahim. 

And  thou  whose  glory  and  whose  crime 
To  earth's  remotest  bound  and  clime, 
In  mingled  tones  of  awe  and  scorn, 
The  echoes  of  a  world  have  borne, 
My  country  !  glorious  at  thy  birth, 
A  day-star  flashing  brightly  forth, 

The  herald-sign  of  Freedom's  dawn  1 
Oh,  who  could  dream  that  saw  thee  then, 

And  watched  thy  rising  from  afar, 
That  vapors  from  oppression's  fen 

Would  cloud  the  upward  tending  star  ? 
Or,  that  earth's  tyrant  powers,  which  heard, 

Awe-struck,  the  shout  which  hailed  thy 

dawning, 

Would  rise  so  soon,  prince,  peer,  and  kiua 
To  mock  thee  with  their  welcoming, 
Like  Hades  when  her  thrones  were  stirred 

To  greet  the  down-cast  Star  of  Morning ! 
"  Aha  !  and  art  thou  fallen  thus  ? 
Art  thou  become  as  one  of  us  ?  " 

Land  of  my  fathers  !  there  will  stand. 
Amidst  that  world-assembled  band, 
Those  owning  thy  maternal  claim 
Unweakened  by  thy  crime  and  shame  ; 
The  sad  reprovers  of  thy  wrong  ; 
The  children  thou  hast  spurned  so  long. 


286 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Still  with  affection's  fondest  yearning 
To  their  unnatural  mother  turning. 
No  traitors  they  !  but  tried  and  leal, 
Whose  own  is  but  thy  general  weal, 
IStill  blending  with  the  patriot's  zeal 
The  Christian's  love  for  human  kind, 
To  caste  and  climate  unconfiued. 

A  holy  gathering  !  peaceful  all  : 
No  threat  of  war,  no  savage  call 

For  vengeance  on  an  erring  brother  ! 
But  in  their  stead  the  godlike  plan 
To  teach  the  brotherhood  of  man 

To  love  and  reverence  one  another, 
As  sharers  of  a  common  blood, 
The  children  of  a  common  God  ! 
5Tet,  even  at  its  lightest  word, 
Shall  Slavery's  darkest  depths  be  stirred  : 
Spain,  watching  from  her  Moro's  keep 
Her  slave-ships  traversing  the  deep, 
And  Rio,  in  her  strength  and  pride, 
Lifting,  along  her  mountain  side, 
Her  snowy  battlements  and  towers, 
Her  lemon-groves  and  tropic  bowers, 
With  bitter  hate  and  sullen  fear 
Its  freedom-giving  voice  shall  hear  ; 
And  where  my  country's  flag  is  flowing, 
On  breezes  from  Mount  Vernon  blowing, 

Above  the  Nation's  council  halls, 
Where  Freedom's  praise  is  loud  and  long, 

While  close  beneath  the  outward  walls 
The  driver  plies  his  reeking  thong  ; 

The  hammer  of  the  man-thief  falls, 
O'er  hypocritic  cheek  and  brow 
The  crimson  flush  of  shame  shall  glow  : 
And  all  who  for  their  native  land 
Are  pledging  life  and  heart  and  hand, 
Worn  watchers  o'er  her  changing  weal, 
Who  for  her  tarnished  honor  feel, 
Through  cottage  door  and  council-hall 
Shall  thunder  an  awakening  call. 
The  pen  along  its  page  shall  burn 
With  all  intolerable  scorn  ; 
An  eloquent  rebuke  shall  go 
On  all  the  winds  that  Southward  blow  ; 
From  priestly  lips,  now  sealed  and  dumb, 
Warning  and  dread  appeal  shall  come, 
Like  those  which  Israel  heard  from  him, 
The  Prophet  of  the  Cherubim  ; 
Or  those  which  sad  Esaias  hurled 
Against  a  sin-accursed  world  ! 
Its  wizard  leaves  the  Press  shall  fling 
Unceasing  from  its  iron  wing, 
With  characters  inscribed  thereon, 

As  fearful  in  the  despot's  hall 


As  to  the  pomp  of  Babylon 

The  tire-sign  on  the  palace  wall ! 

And,  from  her  dark  iniquities, 
Methinks  I  see  my  courtry  rise  : 
Not  challenging  the  nations  round 

To  note  her  tardy  justice  done  ; 
Her  captives  from  their  chains  unbound, 

Her  prisons  opening  to  the  sun  : 
But  tearfully  her  arms  extending 
Over  the  poor  and  unoffending  ; 

Her  regal  emblem  now  no  longer 
A  bird  of  prey,  with  talons  reeking, 
Above  the  dying  captive  shrieking, 
But,  spreading  out  her  ample  wing, 
A  broad,  impartial  covering, 

The  weaker  sheltered  by  the  stronger ! 
Oh,  then  to  Faith's  anointed  eyes 

The  promised  token  shall  be  given  ; 
And  on  a  nation's  sacrifice, 
Atoning  for  the  sin  of  years, 
And  wet  with  penitential  tears, 

The  fire  shall  fall  from  Heaven  I 


MASSACHUSETTS   TO   VIRGINIA 

Written  on  reading  an  account  of  the  pro 
ceedings  of  the  citizens  of  Norfolk,  Va.,  in 
reference  to  George  Latimer,  the  alleged  fugi 
tive  slave,  who  was  seized  in  Boston  without 
warrant  at  the  request  of  James  B.  Grey,  of 
Norfolk,  claiming  to  be  his  master.  The  case 
caused  great  excitement  North  and  South,  and 
led  to  the  presentation  of  a  petition  to  Con 
gress,  signed  by  more  than  fifty  thousand  cit 
izens  of  Massachusetts,  calling  for  such  laws 
and  proposed  amendments  to  the  Constitution 
as  should  relieve  the  Commonwealth  from  all 
further  participation  in  the  crime  of  oppression. 
George  Latimer  himself  was  finally  given  free 
papers  for  the  sum  of  four  hundred  dollars. 

THE  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills, 
upon  its  Southern  way, 

Bears  greeting  to  Virginia  from  Massa 
chusetts  Bay  : 

No  word  of  haughty  challenging,  nor  battle 
bugle's  peal, 

Nor  steady  tread  of  marching  files,  noi 
clang  of  horsemen's  steel. 

No  trains  of  deep-mouthed  cannon  along 

our  highways  go  ; 
Around  our  silent  arsenals  untrodden  lies 

the  snow  ; 


MASSACHUSETTS  TO  VIRGINIA 


287 


And  to  the  land-breeze  of  our  ports,  upon 

their  errands  far, 
A  thousand   sails   of   commerce  swell,  but 

none  are  spread  for  war. 

We  hear  thy  threats,  Virginia  !  thy  stormy 

words  and  high 
Swell  harshly  on  the  Southern  winds  which 

melt  along  our  sky  ; 
Yet,  not  one  brown,  hard  hand  foregoes  its 

honest  labor  here, 
No  hewer  of  our  mountain  oaks  suspends 

his  axe  in  fear. 

Wild  are  the  waves  which  lash  the  reefs 
along  St.  George's  bank  ; 

Cold  on  the  shores  of  Labrador  the  fog 
lies  white  and  dank  ; 

Through  storm,  and  wave,  and  blinding 
mist,  stout  are  the  hearts  which  man 

The  fishing-smacks  of  Marblehead,  the  sea- 
boats  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  cold  north  light  and  wintry  sun  glare 

on  their  icy  forms, 
Bent   grimly  o'er  their  straining   lines  or 

wrestling  with  the  storms  ; 
Free  as  the  winds  they  drive  before,  rough 

as  the  waves  they  roam, 
They  laugh   to  scorn   the    slaver's    threat 

against  their  rocky  home. 

What   means   the  Old    Dominion  ?     Hath 

she  forgot  the  day 
When   o'er   her   conquered  valleys    swept 

the  Briton's  steel  array  ? 
How  side  by  side,  with  sons  of   hers,  the 

Massachusetts  men 
Encountered  Tarleton's  charge  of  fire,  and 

stout  Coriiwallis,  then  ? 

Forgets  she  how  the  Bay  State,  in  answer 

to  the  call 
Of  her  old  House  of  Burgesses,  spoke  out 

from  Faneuil  Hall  ? 
When,    echoing    back    her     Henry's   cry, 

came  pulsing  on  each  breath 
Of  Northern  winds  the  thrilling  sounds  of 

"  Liberty  or  Death  !  " 

What   asks  the  Old    Dominion?     If   now 

her  sons  have  proved 
False  to  their  fathers'  memory,  false  to  the 

faith  they  loved  ; 


If  she  can  scoff  at  Freedom,  and  its  great 

charter  spurn, 
Must  we  of  Massachusetts  from  truth  and 

duty  turn  ? 

We  hunt  your  bondmen,  flying  from  Sla 
very's  hateful  hell  ; 

Our  voices,  at  your  bidding,  take  up  the 
bloodhound's  yell  ; 

We  gather,  at  your  summons,  above  our 
fathers'  graves, 

From  Freedom's  holy  altar-horns  to  teal 
your  wretched  slaves  ! 

Thank  God  !  not  yet  so  vilely  can  Massa 
chusetts  bow  ; 

The  spirit  of  her  early  time  is  with  her  even 
now  ; 

Dream  not  because  her  Pilgrim  blood  moves 
slow  and  calm  and  cool, 

She  thus  can  stoop  her  chainless  neck,  a  sis 
ter's  slave  and  tool  ! 

All  that  a  sister  State  should  do,  all  that  a 
free  State  may, 

Heart,  hand,  and  purse  we  proffer,  as  in  our 
early  day ; 

But  that  one  dark  loathsome  burden  ye  must 
stagger  with  alone, 

And  reap  the  bitter  harvest  which  ye  your 
selves  have  sown  ! 

Hold,  while  ye  may,  your  struggling  slaves, 

and  burden  God's  free  air 
With  woman's  shriek  beneath  the  lash,  and 

manhood's  wild  despair  ; 
Cling  closer  to  the  "  cleaving  curse  "  that 

writes  upon  your  plains 
The  blasting  of  Almighty  wrath  against  a 

land  of  chains. 

Still  shame  your  gallant  ancestry,  the  cava 
liers  of  old, 

By  watching  round  the  shambles  where  hu 
man  flesh  is  sold  ; 

Gloat  o'er  the  new-born  child,  and  count 
his  market  value,  when 

The  maddened  mother's  cry  of  woe  shall 
pierce  the  slaver's  den  ! 

Lower  than   plummet  soundeth,  sink   the 

Virginia  name  ; 
Plant,  if  ye  will,  your  fathers'  graves  with 

rankest  weeds  of  shame  ; 


288 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Be,  if  ye  will,  the  scandal  of  God's  fair  uni 
verse  ; 

We  wash  our  hands  forever  of  your  sin  and 
shame  and  curse. 

A  voice  from  lips  whereon  the  coal  from 
Freedom's  shrine  hath  been, 

Thrilled,  as  but  yesterday,  the  hearts  of 
Berkshire's  mountain  men  : 

The  echoes  of  that  solemn  voice  are  sadly 
lingering  still 

In  all  our  sunny  valleys,  on  every  wind 
swept  hill. 

And  when  the   prowling   man-thief   came 

hunting  for  his  prey 
Beneath  the  very  shadow  of  Bunker's  shaft 

of  gray, 
How,  through  the  free  lips  of  the  son,  the 

father's  warning  spoke  ; 
How,  from  its  bonds  of  trade  and  sect,  the 

Pilgrim  city  broke  ! 

A  hundred  thousand  right  arms  were  lifted 

up  on  high, 
A  hundred  thousand  voices  sent  back  their 

loud  reply  ; 
Through  the  thronged  towns  of  Essex  the 

startling  summons  rang, 
And  up  from  bench  and  loom  and  wheel  her 

young  mechanics  sprang  ! 

The  voice  of  free,  broad  Middlesex,  of  thou 
sands  as  of  one, 

The  shaft  of  Bunker  calling  to  that  of  Lex 
ington  ; 

From  Norfolk's  ancient  villages,  from  Ply 
mouth's  rocky  bound 

To  where  Nantucket  feels  the  arms  of  ocean 
close  her  round  ; 

From   rich   and    rural   Worcester,   where 

through  the  calm  repose 
Of  cultured  vales  and  fringing  woods  the 

gentle  Nashua  flows, 
To   where   Wachuset's   wintry   blasts   the 

mountain  larches  stir, 
Swelled  up  to  Heaven  the  thrilling  cry  of 

"  God  save  Latimer  !  " 

And  sandy  Barnstable  rose  up,  wet  with  the 

salt  sea  spray  ; 
And  Bristol  sent  her  answering  shout  down 

Narragansett  Bay  ! 


Along  the  broad  Connecticut  old  Hampdeji 

felt  the  thrill, 
And    the  cheer  of    Hampshire's  woodmen 

swept  down  from  Holyoke  Hill. 

The  voice  of  Massachusetts  !  Of  her  free 
sons  and  daughters, 

Deep  calling  unto  deep  aloud,  the  sound  of 
many  waters  ! 

Against  the  burden  of  that  voice  what  ty 
rant  power  shall  stand  ? 

No  fetters  in  the  Bay  State  !  No  slave 
upon  her  land  ! 

Look  to  it  well,  Virginians  !       In  calmness 

we  have  borne, 
In  answer  to  our  faith  and  trust,  your  insult 

and  your  scorn  ; 
You  've    spurned    our    kindest    counsels  ; 

you  've  hunted  for  our  lives  ; 
And  shaken  round  our  hearths  and  homes 

your  manacles  and  gyves  ! 

We  wage  no  war,  we  lift  no  arm,  we  fling 

no  torch  within 
The  fire-damps  of  the  quaking  mine  beneath 

your  soil  of  sin  ; 
We  leave  ye  with  your  bondmen,  to  wrestle, 

while  ye  can, 
With  the  strong   upward   tendencies   and 

godlike  soul  of  man  ! 

But  for  us  and  for  our  children,  the  vow 

which  we  have  given 
For  freedom  and  humanity  is  registered  in 

heaven  ; 
No  slave-hunt  in  our  borders,  —  no  pirate 

on  our  strand  ! 
No   fetters   in  the    Bay  State, —  no  slave 

upon  our  land  ! 


THE   CHRISTIAN    SLAVE 

In  a  publication  of  L.  F.  Tasistro  —  Random 
Shots  and  Southern  Breezes  —  is  a  description  oi 
a  slave  auction  at  New  Orleans,  at  which  the 
auctioneer  recommended  the  woman  on  the 
stand  as  "  A  GOOD  CHRISTIAN  !  "  It  was  not 
uncommon  to  see  advertisements  of  slaves  for 
sale,  in  which  they  were  described  as  pious  01 
as  members  of  the  church.  In  one  advertise 
ment  a  slave  was  noted  as  "  a  Baptist  preacher/ 


THE   SENTENCE   OF   JOHN    L.  BROWN 


289 


A  CHRISTIAN  !  going,  gone  ! 
Who  bids  for  God's  own  image  ?   for  his 

grace, 
Which  that  poor  victim  of  the  market-place, 

Hath  in  her  suffering  won  ? 

My  God  !  can  such  things  be  ? 
Hast  Thou  not  said  that  whatsoe'er  is  done 
Unto  Thy  weakest  and  Thy  humblest  one 

Is  even  done  to  Thee  ? 

In  that  sad  victim,  then, 
Child  of  Thy  pitying  love,  I  see  Thee  stand  ; 
Once  more  the  jest-word  of  a  mocking  band, 

Bound,  sold,  and  scourged  again  ! 

A  Christian  up  for  sale  ! 
Wet  with  her  blood  your  whips,  o'ertask 

her  frame, 
Make  her  life  loathsome  with  your  wrong 

and  shame, 
Her  patience  shall  not  fail  ! 

A  heathen  hand  might  deal 
Back  on  your  heads  the  gathered  wrong  of 

years : 
But  her  low,  broken   prayer   and    nightly 

tears, 
Ye  neither  heed  nor  feel. 

Con  well  thy  lesson  o'er, 
Thou  prudent  teacher,  tell  the  toiling  slave 
No  dangerous  tale  of  Him  who  came  to  save 

The  outcast  and  the  poor. 

But  wisely  shut  the  ray 
Of  God's  free  Gospel  from  her  simple  heart, 
And  to  her  darkened  mind  alone  impart 

One  stern  command,  Obey  ! 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 
The  market  price  of  human  flesh  ;  and  while 
On  thee,  their  pampered  guest,  the  planters 
smile, 

Thy  church  shall  praise. 

Grave,  reverend  men  shall  tell 
From  Northern  pulpits  how  thy  work  was 

blest, 
While  in  that  vile  South  Sodom  first  and 

best, 
Thy  poor  disciples  sell. 

Oh,  shame  !  the  Moslem  thrall, 
Who,  with  his  master,  to  the  Prophet  kneels, 


While  turning  to  the  sacred  Kebla  feels 
His  fetters  break  and  fall. 

Cheers  for  the  turbaned  Bey 
Of  robber-peopled  Tunis  !  he  hath  torn 
The  dark  slave  -  dungeons  open,  and  hatb 
borne 

Their  inmates  into  day  : 

But  our  poor  slave  in  vain 
Turns  to  the  Christian  shrine    his  aching 

eyes  ; 
Its  rites  will  only  swell  his  market  price. 

And  rivet  on  his  chain. 

God  of  all  right  !  how  long 
Shall  priestly  robbers  at  Thine  altar  stand, 
Lifting  in  prayer  to  Thee  the  bloody  hand 

And  haughty  brow  of  wrong  ? 

Oh,  from  the  fields  of  cane, 
From  the  low  rice-swamp,  from  the  trader's 

cell; 

From  the  black  slave-ship's  foul  and  loath 
some  hell, 
And  coffle's  weary  chain  ; 

Hoarse,  horrible,  and  strong, 
Rises  to  Heaven  that  agonizing  cry, 
Filling  the  arches  of  the  hollow  sky, 

How  long,  O  God,  how  long  ? 


THE      SENTENCE     OF     JOHN     L. 
BROWN 

John  L.  Brown,  a  young  white  man  of  South 
Carolina,  was  in  1844  sentenced  to  death  for 
aiding  a  young  slave  woman,  whom  he  loved 
and  had  married,  to  escape  from  slavery.  In 
pronouncing  the  sentence  Judge  O'Neale  ad 
dressed  to  the  prisoner  words  of  appalling  blas 
phemy  [of  which  the  following  passages  give 
some  notion]  :  — 

You  are  to  die  !  ...  Of  your  past  life  I  know  no 
thing,  except  what  your  trial  furnished.  That  told  me 
that  the  crime  for  which  you  are  to  suffer  was  the  con 
sequence  of  a  want  of  attention  on  your  part  to  tha 
duties  of  life.  The  strange  woman  snared  you.  She 
nattered  you  with  her  words,  and  you  became  her  vic 
tim.  The  consequence  was,  that,  led  on  by  a  desire  to 
serve  her,  you  committed  the  offence  of  aiding  a  slave 
to  run  away  and  depart  from  her  master's  service  ;  and 
now,  for  it  you  are  to  die  !  .  .  . 

You  are  young ;  quite  too  young  to  be  where  you 
are.  If  you  had  remembered  your  Creator  in  your  past 
days,  you  would  not  now  be  in  a  felon's  place,  to  re 
ceive  a  felon's  judgment.  Still,  it  is  not  too  late  to 
remember  your  Creator.  He  calls  early,  and  He  call3 


290 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


late.  He  stretches  out  the  arms  of  a  Father's  love  to 
j'ou  —  to  the  vilest  sinner  —  and  says  :  "  Come  unto  me 
and  be  saved." 

No  event  in  the  history  of  the  anti-slavery 
struggle  so  stirred  the  two  hemispheres  as  did 
this  dreadful  sentence.  A  cry  of  horror  ",vas 
heard  from  Europe.  In  the  British  House  of 
Lords  Brougham  and  Denman  spoke  of  it  with 
mingled  pathos  and  indignation.  Thirteen 
hundred  clergymen  and  church  officers  in 
Great  Britain  addressed  a  memorial  to  the 
churches  of  JSouth  Carolina  against  the  atrocity. 
Indeed,  so  strong  was  the  pressure  of  the  sen 
timent  of  abhorrence  and  disgust  that  South 
Carolina  yielded  to  it,  and  the  sentence  was 
commuted  to  scourging  and  banishment. 

Ho  !  thou  who  seekest  late  and  long 

A  License  from  the  Holy  Book 
For  brutal  lust  and  fiendish  wrong, 

Man  of  the  Pulpit,  look  ! 
Lift  up  those  cold  and  atheist  eyes, 

This  ripe  fruit  of  thy  teaching  see  ; 
And  tell  us  how  to  heaven  will  rise 
The  incense  of  this  sacrifice  — 

This  blossom  of  the  gallows  tree  ! 

Search  out  for  slavery's  hour  of  need 

Some  fitting  text  of  sacred  writ  ; 
Give  heaven  the  credit  of  a  deed 

Which  shames  the  nether  pit. 
Kneel,  smooth  blasphemer,  unto  Him 

Whose  truth  is  on  thy  lips  a  lie  ; 
Ask  that  His  bright  winged  cherubim 
May  bend  around  that  scaffold  grim 

To  guard  and  bless  and  sanctify. 

O  champion  of  the  people's  cause  ! 

Suspend  thy  loud  and  vain  rebuke 
Of  foreign  wrong  and  Old  World's  laws, 

Man  of  the  Senate,  look  ! 
Was  this  the  promise  of  the  free, 

The  great  hope  of  our  early  time, 
That  slavery's  poison  vine  should  be 
Upborne  by  Freedom's  prayer-nursed  tree 

O'erclustered  with  such  fruits  of  crime  ? 

Send  out  the  summons  East  and  West, 

And  South  and  North,  let  all  be  there 
Where  he  who  pitied  the  oppressed 

Swings  out  in  sun  and  air. 
Let  not  a  Democratic  hand 

Tiie  grisly  hangman's  task  refuse  ; 
There  let  each  loyal  patriot  stand, 
Awaiting  slavery's  command, 

To  twist  the  rope  and  draw  the  noose  ! 


But  vain  is  irony  —  unmeet 

Its  cold  rebuke  for  deeds  which  start 
In  fiery  and  indignant  beat 

The  pulses  of  the  heart. 
Leave  studied  wit  and  guarded  phrase 

For  those  who  think  but  do  not  feel  ; 
Let  men  speak  out  in  words  which  raise 
Where'er  they  fall,  an  answering  blaze 

Like  flints  which  strike  the  fire  from  steel 

Still  let  a  mousing  priesthood  ply 

Their  garbled  text  and  gloss  of  sin, 
And  make  the  lettered  scroll  deny 

Its  living  soul  within  : 
Still  let  the  place-fed,  titled  knave 

Plead  robbery's  right  with  purchased  lips. 
And  tell  us  that  our  fathers  gave 
For  Freedom's  pedestal,  a  slave, 

The   frieze   and    moulding,   chains   and 
whips  ! 

But  ye  who  own  that  Higher  Law 

Whose  tablets  in  the  heart  are  set, 
Speak  out  in  words  of  power  and  awe 

That  God  is  living  yet  ! 
Breathe  forth  once  more  those  tones  sublime 

Which  thrilled    the  burdened  prophet's 

lyre, 

And  in  a  dark  and  evil  time 
Smote  down  on  Israel's  fast  of  crime 

And  gift  of  blood,  a  rain  of  fire  ! 

Oh,  not  for  us  the  graceful  lay 

To  whose  soft  measures  lightly  move 
The  footsteps  of  the  faun  and  fay, 

O'er-locked  by  mirth  and  love  ! 
But  such  a  stern  and  startling  strain 

As  Britain's  hunted  bards  flung  down 
From  Snowden  to  the  conquered  plain, 
Where  harshly  clanked  the  Saxon  chain 

On  trampled  field  and  smoking  town. 

By  Liberty's  dishonored  name, 

By  man's  lost  hope  and  failing  trust, 
By  words  and  deeds  which  bow  with  shame 

Our  foreheads  to  the  dust, 
By  the  exulting  strangers'  sneer, 

Borne   to   us   from    the     Old    World's 

thrones, 

And  by  their  victims'  grief  who  hear, 
In  sunless  mines  and  dungeons  drear, 

How  Freedom's  land  her  faith  disowns  f 

Speak  out  in  acts.     The  time  for  words 
Has  passed,  and  deeds  suffice  alone  : 


TEXAS 


2QT 


In  vain  against  the  clang  of  swords 

The  wailing  pipe  is  blown  ! 
Act,  act  in  God's  name,  while  ye  may  J 

Smite  from  the  church  her  leprous  limb  ! 
Throw  open  to  the  light  of  day 
The  bondman's  cell,  and  break  away 

The  chains  the  state  has  bound  on  him  ! 

Ho  !  every  true  and  living  soul, 

To  Freedom's  perilled  altar  bear 
The  Freeman's  and  the  Christian's  whole 

Tongue,  pen,  and  vote,  and  prayer  ! 
One  last,  great  battle  for  the  right  — 

One  short,  sharp  struggle  to  be  free  ! 
To  do  is  to  succeed  —  our  fight 
Is  waged  in  Heaven's  approving  sight ; 

The  smile  of  God  is  Victory. 


TEXAS 


VOICE    OF    NEW    ENGLAND 

The  five  poems  immediately  following  indi 
cate  the  intense  feeling-  of  the  friends  of  free 
dom  in  view  of  the  annexation  of  Texas,  with 
its  vast  territory  sufficient,  as  was  boasted,  for 
six  new  slave  States.  [The  first  poem  seems 
to  have  been  written  at  the  earnest  entreaty 
of  Lowell,  who  called  on  Whittier  "  to  cry 
aloud  and  spare  not  against  the  accursed  Texas 
plot."] 

UP  the  hillside,  down  the  glen, 
Rouse  the  sleeping  citizen; 
Summon  out  the  might  of  men  ! 

Like  a  lion  growling  low, 
Like  a  night-storm  rising  slow, 
Like  the  tread  of  unseen  foe  ; 

It  is  coming,  it  is  nigh  ! 

Stand  your  homes  and  altars  by; 

On  your  own  free  thresholds  die. 

Clang  the  bells  in  all  your  spires  ; 
On  the  gray  hills  of  your  sires 
Fling  to  heaven  your  signal-fires- 

From  Wachuset,  lone  and  bleak, 

Unto  Berkshire's  tallest  peak, 

Let  the  flame-tongued  heralds  speak. 

Oh,  for  God  and  duty  stand, 
Heart  to  heart  and  hand  to  hand. 
Round  the  old  graves  of  the  land. 


Whoso  shrinks  or  falters  now, 
Whoso  to  the  yoke  would  bow, 
Brand  the  craven  on  his  brow  ! 

Freedom's  soil  hath  only  place 
For  a  free  and  fearless  race, 
None  for  traitors  false  and  base 

Perish  party,  perish  clan  ; 
Strike  together  while  ye  can, 
Like  the  arm  of  one  strong  man. 

Like  that  angel's  voice  sublime, 
Heard  above  a  world  of  crime, 
Crying  of  the  end  of  time  ; 

With  one  heart  and  with  one  mouth, 
Let  the  North  unto  the  South 
Speak  the  word  befitting  both  : 

"  What  though  Issachar  be  strong  ! 
Ye  may  load  his  back  with  wrong 
Overmuch  and  over  long  : 

"  Patience  with  her  cup  o'errun, 
With  her  weary  thread  outspun, 
Murmurs  that  her  work  is  done. 

"Make  our  Union-bond  a  chain, 
Weak  as  tow  in  Freedom's  strain 
Link  by  link  shall  snap  in  twain. 

"  Vainly  shall  your  sand-wrought  rope 
Bind  the  starry  cluster  up, 
Shattered  over  heaven's  blue  cope  ! 

"  Give  us  bright  though  broken  rays, 
Rather  than  eternal  haze, 
Clouding  o'er  the  full-orbed  blaze. 

"  Take  your  land  of  sun  and  bloom  ; 
Only  leave  to  Freedom  room 
For  her  plough,  and  forge,  and  loom  ; 

"  Take  your  slavery-blackened  vales  ; 
Leave  us  but  our  own  free  gales, 
Blowing  on  our  thousand  sails. 

"  Boldly,  or  with  treacherous  art, 
Strike  the  blood-wrought  chain  apart  } 
Break  the  Union's  mighty  heart  ; 

"  Work  the  ruin,  if  ye  will  ; 
Pluck  upon  your  heads  an  ill 
Which  shall  grow  and  deepen  still. 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


"  With  your  bondman's  right  arm  bare, 
With  his  heart  of  black  despair, 
Stand  alone,  if  stand  ye  dare  ! 

"  Onward  with  your  fell  design  ; 
Dig  the  gulf  and  draw  the  line  : 
Fire  beneath  your  feet  the  mine  : 

"  Deeply,  when  the  wide  abyss 
Yawns  between  your  land  and  this, 
Shall  ye  feel  your  helplessness. 

"  By  the  hearth,  and  in  the  bed, 
Shaken  by  a  look  or  tread, 
Ye  shall  own  a  guilty  dread. 

"  And  the  curse  of  unpaid  toil, 
Downward  through  your  generous  soil 
Like  a  fire  shall  burn  and  spoil. 

"  Our  bleak  hills  shall  bud  and  blow, 
Vines  our  rocks  shall  overgrow, 
Plenty  in  our  valleys  flow  ;  — 

"  And  when  vengeance  clouds  your  skies, 
Hither  shall  ye  turn  your  eyes, 
As  the  lost  on  Paradise  ! 

"  We  but  ask  our  rocky  strand, 
Freedom's  true  and  brother  band, 
Freedom's  strong  and  honest  hand  ; 

"Valleys  by  the  slave  untrod, 
And  the  Pilgrim's  mountain  sod, 
Blessed  of  our  fathers'  God  ! " 


TO    FANEUIL   HALL 

Written  in  1844,  on  reading  a  call  by  "  a 
Massachusetts  Freeman "  for  a  meeting-  in 
Faneuil  Hall  of  the  citizens  of  Massachusetts, 
without  distinction  of  party,  opposed  to  the  an 
nexation  of  Texas  and  the  aggressions  of  South 
Carolina,  and  in  favor  of  decisive  action  against 
slavery. 

MEN  !  if  manhood  still  ye  claim, 

If  the  Northern  pulse  can  thrill, 
Roused  by  wrong  or  stung  by  shame, 

Freely,  strongly  still  ; 
Let  the  sounds  of  traffic  die  -• 

Shut  the  mill-gate,  leave  the  stall, 
Fling  the  axe  and  hammer  by  ; 

Throng  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 


Wrongs  which  freemen  never  brooked, 

Dangers  grim  and  fierce  as  they, 
Which,  like  couching  lions,  looked 

On  your  fathers'  way  ; 
These  your  instant  zeal  demand, 

Shaking  with  their  earthquake-call 
Every  rood  of  Pilgrim  land, 

Ho,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

From  your  capes  and  sandy  bars, 

From  your  mountain-ridges  cold, 
Through  whose  pines  the  westering  stars 

Stoop  their  crowns  of  gold  ; 
Come,  and  with  your  footsteps  wake 

Echoes  from  that  holy  wall  ; 
Once  again,  for  Freedom's  sake, 

Rock  your  fathers'  hall  1 

Up,  and  tread  beneath  your  feet 

Every  cord  by  party  spun  : 
Let  your  hearts  together  beat 

As  the  heart  of  one. 
Banks  and  tariffs,  stocks  and  trade, 

Let  them  rise  or  let  them  fall  : 
Freedom  asks  your  common  aid,  - 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Up,  and  let  each  voice  that  speaks 

Ring  from  thence  to  Southern  plains, 
Sharply  as  the  blow  which  breaks 

Prison-bolts  and  chains  ! 
Speak  as  well  becomes  the  free  : 

Dreaded  more  than  steel  or  ball, 
Shall  your  calmest  utterance  be, 

Heard  from  Faneuil  Hall ! 

Have  they  wronged  us  ?     Let  us  then 

Render  back  nor  threats  nor  prayers  j 
Have  they  chained  our  free-born  men  ? 

Let  us  unchain  theirs  ! 
Up,  your  banner  leads  the  van, 

Blazoned,  "  Liberty  for  all !  " 
Finish  what  your  sires  began  ! 

Up,  to  Faneuil  Hall  ! 


TO    MASSACHUSETTS 

WTHAT  though  around  thee  blazes 

No  fiery  rallying  sign  ? 
From  all  thy  own  high  places, 

Give  heaven  the  light  of  thine  ! 
What  though  unthrilled,  unmovingr 

The  statesman  stand  apart, 


THE  PINEXTREE 


293 


And  comes  no  warm  approving 
From  Mammon's  crowded  mart  ? 

Still  let  the  land  be  shaken 

By  a  summons  of  thine  own  ! 
By  all  save  truth  forsaken, 

Stand  fast  with  that  alone  ! 
Shrink  not  from  strife  unequal ! 

With  the  best  is  always  hope  ; 
And  ever  in  the  sequel 

God  holds  the  right  side  up  ! 

But  when,  with  thine  uniting, 

Come  voices  long  and  loud, 
And  far-off  hills  are  writing 

Thy  fire-words  on  the  cloud  ; 
When  from  Penobscot's  fountains 

A  deep  response  is  heard, 
And  across  the  Western  mountains 

Rolls  back  thy  rallying  word  ; 

Shall  thy  line  of  battle  falter, 

With  its  allies  just  in  view  ? 
Oh,  by  hearth  and  holy  altar, 

My  fatherland,  be  true  ! 
Fling  abroad  thy  scrolls  of  Freedom  ! 

Speed  them  onward  far  and  fast  ! 
Over  hill  and  valley  speed  them, 

Like  the  sibyl's  on  the  blast ! 

Lo  !  the  Empire  State  is  shaking 

The  shackles  from  her  hand  ; 
With  the  rugged  North  is  waking 

The  level  sunset  land  ! 
On  they  come,  the  free  battalions  ! 

East  and  West  and  North  they  come, 
And  the  heart-beat  of  the  millions 

Is  the  beat  of  Freedom's  drum. 

u  To  the  tyrant's  plot  no  favor  ! 

No  heed  to  place-fed  knaves  ! 
Bar  and  bolt  the  door  forever 

Against  the  land  of  slaves  ! " 
Hear  it,  mother  Earth,  and  hear  it, 

The  heavens  above  us  spread  ! 
The  land  is  roused,  — its  spirit 

Was  sleeping,  but  not  dead  ! 


NEW   HAMPSHIRE 

GOD    bless    New    Hampshire  !  from    her 

granite  peaks 
Once  more  the  voice  of  Stark  and  Langdon 

speaks. 


The   long-bound   vassal    of    the    exulting 

South 
For  very   shame    her  self-forged   chain 

has  broken  ; 
Torn  the   black   seal  of   slavery  from   her 

mouth, 
And  in  the  clear  tones  of  her  old  time 

spoken  ! 
Oh,    all   undreamed-of,  all   unhoped-for 

changes ! 

The  tyrant's  ally  proves  his  sternest  foe  ; 
To  all  his   biddings,   from   her   mountain 

ranges, 
New  Hampshire  thunders  an  indignant 

No! 
Who  is   it   now  despairs  ?     Oh,   faint   of 

heart, 

Look  upward  to  those   Northern  moun 
tains  cold, 

Flouted   by   Freedom's  victor -flag   un 
rolled, 
And   gather    strength   to   bear  a  manlier 

part! 

All  is  not  lost.     The  angel  of  God's   bless 
ing 
Encamps  with  Freedom  on  the  field  of 

fight  ; 

Still  to  her  banner,  day  by  day,  are  press 
ing 
Unlocked  -  for    allies,    striking   for   the 

right  ! 
Courage,  then,  Northern  hearts  J     Be  firm, 

be  true  : 

What  one  brave  State  hath  done,  can  ye  not 
also  do  ? 


THE    PINE-TREE 

Written  on  hearing  that  the  Anti-Slavery  Re 
solves  of  Stephen  C.  Phillips  had  been  rejected 
by  the  Whig1  Convention  in  Faneuil  Hall,  in 
1846. 

LIFT  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay 

State's  rusted  shield, 
Give  to  Northern  winds  the  Pine-Tree  on 

our  banner's  tattered  field. 
Sons  of  men  who  sat  in  council  with  their 

Bibles  round  the  board, 
Answering  England's  royal  missive  with  a 

firm,  "  Thus  saith  the  Lord  !  " 
Rise  again  for  home  and  freedom  !  set  the 

battle  in  array  ! 
What  the  fathers  did  of  old  time  we   their 

sons  must  do  to-day. 


294 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Tell  us  not  of  banks  and  tariffs,  ooase  your 

paltry  pedler  cries  ; 
Shall  the  good  State   sink   her  honor  that 

your  gambling  stocks  may  rise  ? 
Would  ye  barter  man  for  cotton  ?     That 

your  gffins  may  sum  up  higher, 
Must  we  kiss  the  feet  of  Moloch,  pass  our 

children  through  the  fire  ? 
Is   the  dollar  only  real  ?     God  and  truth 

and  right  a  dream  ? 
Weighed  against  your  lying  ledgers  must 

our  manhood  kick  the  beam  ? 

O  my  God  !  for  that  free  spirit,  which  of 

old  in  Boston  town 
Smote    the    Province    House    with   terror, 

struck  the  crest  of  Andros  down  ! 
For  another  strong-voiced   Adams   in  the 

city's  streets  to  cry, 
"  Up   for   God   and  Massachusetts  !      Set 

your  feet  on  Mammon's  lie  ! 
Perish  banks  and  perish  traffic,  spin  your 

cotton's  latest  pound, 
But  in  Heaven's  name    keep   your    honor, 

keep   the   heart   o'    the   Bay   State 

sound  !  " 

Where  's    the    man    for    Massachusetts  ? 

Where  's  the  voice  to  speak  her  free  ? 
Where  's  the  hand  to  light  up  bonfires  from 

her  mountains  to  the  sea  ? 
Beats  her  Pilgrim  pulse  no  longer  ?     Sits 

she  dumb  in  her  despair  ? 
Has  she  none  to  break  the  silence  ?     Has 

she  none  to  do  and  dare  ? 
O  my  God  !  for  one  right  worthy  to  lift  up 

her  rusted  shield, 
And  to  plant  again  the  Pine-Tree   in  her 

banner's  tattered  field  ! 


TO   A   SOUTHERN    STATESMAN 

John  C.  Calhoun,  who  had  strongly  urged 
the  extension  of  slave  territory  by  the  annexa 
tion  of  Texas,  even  if  it  should  involve  a  war 
with  England,  was  unwilling-  to  promote  the 
acquisition  of  Oregon,  which  would  enlarge 
the  Northern  domain  of  freedom,  and  pleaded 
as  an  excuse  the  peril  of  foreign  complications 
which  he  had  defied  when  the  interests  of  sla 
very  were  involved. 

Is  this  thy  voice  whose  treble  notes  of  fear 
Wail  in  the  wind  ?     And  dost  thou  shake 
to  hear, 


Actseon-like,  the  bay  of  thine  own  hounds, 
Spurning  the  leash,  and  leaping   o'er  theii 

bounds  ? 
Sore  -  baffled  statesman  !  when  thy  eager 

hand, 
With   game    afoot,   unslipped  the   hungry 

pack, 

To  hunt  down  Freedom  in  her  chosen  land, 
Hadst  thou  no  fear,  that,  erelong,  doubling 

back, 

These  dogs  of  thine  might   snuff  on  Sla 
very's  track  ? 
Where  's  now   the   boast,    which  even  thy 

guarded  tongue, 
Cold,  calm,  and  proud,  in  the  teeth  o'  the 

Senate  flung, 

O'er  the  fulfilment  of  thy  baleful  plan, 
Like  Satan's  triumph  at  the  fall  of  man  ? 
How  stood'st  thou  then,  thy  feet  on  Free 
dom  planting, 

And  pointing  to  the  lurid  heaven  afar, 
Whence  all  could  see,  through  the  south 

windows  slanting, 
Crimson  as  blood,  the  beams  of  that  Lone 

Star! 
The  Fates  are  just  ;  they  give  us  but  oui 

own  ; 

Nemesis  ripens  what  our  hands  have  sown. 
There  is  an  Eastern  story,  not  unknown, 
Doubtless,    to   thee,  of   one   whose    magic 

skill 

Called  demons  up  his  water-jars  to  fill  ; 
Deftly  and  silently,  they  did  his  will, 
But,  when  the  task  was  done,  kept  pouring 

still. 
In  vain  with  spell  and  charm  the  wizard 

wrought, 

Faster  and  faster  were  the  buckets  brought, 
Higher  and  higher  rose  the  flood  around, 
Till  the  fiends  clapped  their  hands  above 

their  master  drowned  ! 
So,  Carolinian,  it  may  prove  with  thee, 
For  God  still  overrules  man's  schemes,  and 

takes 

Craftiness  in  its  self-set  snare,  and  makes 
The  wrath  of  man  to  praise  Him.     It  may 

be, 

That  the  roused  spirits  of  Democracy 
May  leave  to  freer  States  the  same  wide 

door 

Through  which  thy  slave-cursed  Texas  en 
tered  in, 
From  out  the  blood  and  fire,  the  wrong  and 

sin, 
Of  the  stormed  city  and  the  ghastly  plain, 


AT   WASHINGTON 


29S 


Beat  by  hot  hail,  and  wet  with  bloody  rain, 
The  myriad-handed  pioneer  may  pour, 
And  the  wild  West  with  the  roused  North 

combine 
And  heave  the  engineer  of  evil  with  his 


AT   WASHINGTON 

Suggested  by  a  visit  to  the  city  of  Washing 
ton,  in  the  12th  month  of  1845.  [Originally  en 
titled  Z/ines.J 

WITH  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light 

On  its  roofs  and  steeples  shed, 
Shadows  weaving  with  the  sunlight 

From  the  gray  sky  overhead, 
Broadly,  vaguely,  all  around  me,  lies  the 
half-built  town  outspread. 

Through  this  broad  street,  restless  ever, 

Ebbs  and  flows  a  human  tide, 
Wave  on  wave  a  living  river  ; 

Wealth  and  fashion  side  by  side  ; 
Toiler,  idler,  slave  and  master,  in  the  same 
quick  current  glide. 

Underneath  yon  dome,  whose  coping 
Springs  above  them,  vast  and  tall, 
Grave  men  in  the  dust  are  groping 
For  the  largess,  base  and  small, 
Which  the  hand   of   Power   is   scattering, 
crumbs  which  from  its  table  fall. 

Base  of  heart !     They  vilely  barter 
Honor's  wealth  for  party's  place  ; 
Step  by  step  on  Freedom's  charter 
Leaving  footprints  of  disgrace  ; 
i?or  to-day's  poor  pittance  turning  from  the 
great  hope  of  their  race. 

Yet,  where  festal  lamps  are  throwing 

Glory  round  the  dancer's  hair, 
Gold-tressed,  like  an  angel's,  flowing 

Backward  on  the  sunset  air  ; 
A.nd  the  low  quick  pulse  of  music  beats  its 
measure  sweet  and  rare  : 

There  to-night  shall  woman's  glances, 

Star-like,  welcome  give  to  them  ; 
Fawning  fools  with  shy  advances 

Seek  to  touch  their  garments'  hem, 
With  the  tongue  of  flattery  glozing  deeds 
which  God  and  Truth  condemn. 


From  this  glittering  lie  my  vision 
Takes  a  broader,  sadder  range, 
Full  before  me  have  arisen 

Other  pictures  dark  and  strange  ; 
From   the   parlor  to  the  prison  must  the 
scene  and  witness  change. 

Hark  !  the  heavy  gate  is  swinging 

On  its  hinges,  harsh  and  slow  ; 
One  pale  prison  lamp  is  flinging 

On  a  fearful  group  below 
Such  a  light  as  leaves  to  terror  whatsoe'er 
it  does  not  show. 

Pitying  God  !     Is  that  a  woman 

On  whose  wrist  the  shackles  clash  ? 
Is  that  shriek  she  utters  human, 
Underneath  the  stinging  lash  ? 
Are  they  men  whose  eyes  of  madness  from 
that  sad  procession  flash  '? 

Still  the  dance  goes  gayly  onward  ! 
What  is  it  to  Wealth  and  Pride 
That  without  the  stars  are  looking 

On  a  scene  which  earth  should  hide  ? 
That  the  slave-ship  lies  in  waiting,  rocking 
on  Potomac's  tide  ! 

Vainly  to  that  mean  Ambition 

Which,  upon  a  rival's  fall, 
Winds  above  its  old  condition, 
With  a  reptile's  slimy  crawl, 
Shall  the  pleading  voice  of  sorrow,  shall  the 
slave  in  anguish  call. 

Vainly  to  the  child  of  Fashion, 

Giving  to  ideal  woe 
Graceful  luxury  of  compassion, 

Shall  the  stricken  mourner  go  ; 
Hateful  seems  the  earnest  sorrow,  beautiful 
the  hollow  show  ! 

Nay,  my  words  are  all  too  sweeping  : 

In  this  crowded  human  mart, 
Feeling  is  not  dead,  but  sleeping  ; 

Man's  strong  will  and  woman's  heart, 
In  the  coming  strife  for  Freedom,  yet  shall 
6ear  their  generous  part. 

And  from  yonder  sunny  valleys, 
Southward  in  the  distance  lost, 
Freedom  yet  shall  summon  allies 

Worthier  than  the  North  can  boast, 
With  the  Evil  by  their  hearth-stones  grap 
pliug  at  severer  cost. 


296 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Now,  the  soul  alone  is  willing  : 

Faint  the  heart  and  weak  the  knee  ; 
And  as  yet  no  lip  is  thrilling 

With  the  mighty  words,  "  Be  Free  !  " 
Tarrieth  long  the  land's  Good  Angel,  but 
his  advent  is  to  be  ! 

Meanwhile,  turning  from  the  revel 

To  the  prison-cell  my  sight, 
For  intenser  hate  of  evil, 

For  a  keener  sense  of  right, 
Shaking  off  thy  dust,  I  thank  thee,  City  of 
the  Slaves,  to-night ! 

"  To  thy  duty  now  and  ever  ! 

Dream  no  more  of  rest  or  stay  : 
Give  to  Freedom's  great  endeavor 
All  thou  art  and  hast  to-day  :  " 
Thus,   above   the    city's   murmur,    saith   a 
Voice,  or  seems  to  say. 

Ye  with  heart  and  vision  gifted 
To  discern  and  love  the  right, 
Whose  worn  faces  have  been  lifted 

To  the  slowly-growing  light, 
Where    from    Freedom's    sunrise     drifted 
slowly  back  the  murk  of  night  ! 

Ye  who  through  long  years  of  trial 
Still  have  held  your  purpose  fast, 
While  a  lengthening  shade  the  dial 
From  the  westering  sunshine  cast, 
And  of  hope  each  hour's  denial  seemed  an 
echo  of  the  last  ! 

O  my  brothers  !     O  my  sisters  ! 

Would  to  God  that  ye  were  near, 
Gazing  with  me  down  the  vistas 

Of  a  sorrow  strange  and  drear  ; 
Would  to  God  that  ye  were  listeners  to  the 
Voice  I  seem  to  hear  ! 

With  the  storm  above  us  driving, 

With  the  false  earth  mined  below, 
Who  shall  marvel  if  thus  striving 
We  have  counted  friend  as  foe  ; 
Unto  one  another  giving  in  the  darkness 
blow  for  blow. 

Well  it  may  be  that  our  natures 

Have  grown  sterner  and  more  hard, 
And  the  freshness  of  their  features 

SOUK;  what  harsh  and  battle-scarred, 
And  their  harmonies  of  feeling  overtasked 
and  rudely  jarred. 


Be  it  so.     It  should  not  swerve  us 

From  a  purpose  true  and  brave  ; 
Dearer  Freedom's  rugged  service 
Than  the  pastime  of  the  slave  ; 
Better  is  the  storm  above  it  than  the  quiet 
of  the  grave. 

Let  us  then,  uniting,  bury 

All  our  idle  feuds  in  dust, 
And  to  future  conflicts  carry 

Mutual  faith  and  common  trust  ; 
Always  he  who  most  f orgiveth  in  his  brother 
is  most  just. 

From  the  eternal  shadow  rounding 

All  our  sun  and  starlight  here, 
Voices  of  our  lost  ones  sounding 
Bid  us  be  of  heart  and  cheer, 
Through  the  silence,  down  the  spaces,  fall 
ing  on  the  inward  ear. 

Know  we  not  our  dead  are  looking 

Downward  with  a  sad  surprise, 
All  our  strife  of  words  rebuking 

With  their  mild  and  loving  eyes  ? 
Shall  we  grieve  the  holy  angels  ?     Shall  we 
cloud  their  blessed  skies  ? 

Let  us  draw  their  mantles  o'er  us 
Which  have  fallen  in  our  way  ; 
Let  us  do  the  work  before  us, 

Cheerly,  bravely,  while  we  may, 
Ere   the   long    night- silence    cometh,    and 
with  us  it  is  not  day  ! 


THE    BRANDED    HAND 

Captain  Jonathan  Walker,  of  Harwich, 
Mass.,  was  solicited  by  several  fugitive  slaves 
at  Pensaeola,  Florida,  to  carry  them  in  his 
vessel  to  the  British  West  Indies.  Although 
well  aware  of  the  great  hazard  of  the  enter 
prise  he  attempted  to  comply  with  the  request, 
but  was  seized  at  sea  by  an  American  vessel, 
consigned  to  the  authorities  at  Key  West,  and 
thence  sent  back  to  Pensaeola,  where,  after 
a  long  and  rigorous  confinement  in  prison,  he 
was  tried  and  sentenced  to  be  branded  on  his 
right  hand  with  the  letters  "S.  S."  (slave- 
stealer)  and  amerced  in  a  heavy  fine. 

WELCOME    home   again,    brave    seaman ! 

with  thy  thoughtful  brow  and  gray, 
And  the  old   heroic  spirit   of  our  earliei 

better  day  ; 


THE   BRANDED   HAND 


297 


With  that  front  of  calm  endurance,  on 
whose  steady  nerve  in  vain 

Pressed  the  iron  of  the  prison,  smote  the 
fiery  shafts  of  pain  ! 

Is  the  tyrant's  brand  upon  thee  ?  Did  the 
brutal  cravens  aim 

To  make  God's  truth  thy  falsehood,  His 
holiest  work  thy  shame  ? 

When,  all  blood-quenched,  from  the  tor 
ture  the  iron  was  withdrawn, 

How  laughed  their  evil  angel  the  baffled 
fools  to  scorn  ! 

They  change  to  wrong  the  duty  which  God 

hath  written  out 
On  the  great  heart  of  humanity,  too  legible 

for  doubt  ! 
They,  the  loathsome  moral  lepers,  blotched 

from  footsole  up  to  crown, 
Give  to  shame  what  God  hath  given  unto 

honor  and  renown  ! 

Why,   that   brand  is  highest   honor  !  than 

its  traces  never  yet 
Upon    old    armorial     hatchments    was    a 

prouder  blazon  set  : 
And  thy  unborn  generations,  as  they  tread 

our  rocky  strand, 
Shall   tell    with   pride    the    story  of   their 

father's  branded  hand  ! 

4s  the  Templar  home  was  welcome,  bear 
ing  back  from  Syrian  wars 

The  scars  of  Arab  lances  and  of  Paynim 
scimitars, 

The  pallor  of  the  prison,  and  the  shackle's 
crimson  span, 

So  we  meet  thee,  so  we  greet  thee,  truest 
friend  of  God  and  man. 

He  suffered  for  the  ransom  of  the  dear 
Redeemer's  grave, 

Thou  for  His  living  presence  in  the  bound 
and  bleeding  slave  ; 

He  for  a  soil  no  longer  by  the  feet  of  an 
gels  trod, 

Thou  for  the  true  Shechinah,  the  present 
home  of  God  ! 

For,  while  the  jurist,  sitting  with  the 
slave-whip  o'er  him  swung, 

From  the  tortured  truths  of  freedom  the 
lie  of  slavery  wrung, 


And  the  solemn  priest  to  Moloch,  on  each 

God-deserted  shrine, 
Broke  the  bondman's  heart  for  bread,  poured 

the  bondman's  blood  for  wine  ; 

While  the  multitude  in  blindness  to  a  far- 
off  Saviour  knelt, 

And  spurned,  the  while,  the  temple  where 
a  present  Saviour  dwelt  ; 

Thou  beheld'st  Him  in  the  task-field,  in  the 
prison  shadows  dim, 

And  thy  mercy  to  the  bondman,  it  was 
mercy  unto  Him  ! 

In  thy   lone   and   long  night-watches,  sky 

above  and  wave  below, 
Thou  didst  learn  a  higher  wisdom  than  the 

babbling  schoolmen  know  ; 
God's  stars  and  silence  taught  thee,  as  His 

angels  only  can, 
That  the  one  sole  sacred  thing  beneath  the 

cope  of  heaven  is  Man  ! 

ThaL  he  who  treads  profanely  on  the  scrolls 

of  law  and  creed, 
In  the  depth  of  God's  great  goodness  may 

find  mercy  in  his  need  ; 
But  woe  to  him  who  crushes  the  soul  with 

chain  and  rod, 
And   herds  with  lower   natures  the  awful 

form  of  God  ! 

Then   lift     that     manly   right-hand,   bold 

ploughman  of  the  wave  ! 
Its  branded  palm  shall  prophesy,  "  Salvatior 

to  the  Slave  !  " 
Hold  up  its  fire  -  wrought   language,   that 

whoso  reads  may  feel 
His   heart   swell     strong    within    him,   his 

sinews  change  to  steel. 

Hold  it  up  before  our  sunshine,  up  against 

our  Northern  air  ; 
Ho  !  men  of  Massachusetts,  for  the  love  of 

God,  look  there  ! 
Take  it  henceforth  for  your  standard,  like 

the  Bruce's  heart  of  yore, 
In  the  dark  strife  closing  round  ye,  let  that 

hand  be  seen  before  ! 

And   the  masters  of   the  slave-land   shall 

tremble  at  that  sign, 
When  it  points  its  finger  Southward  along 

the  Puritan  line  : 


298 


AiVl i-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Can  the  craft  of  State  avail  them  !  Cau  a 
Christless  church  withstand, 

In  the  van  of  Freedom's  onset,  the  coming 
of  that  hand  ? 


THE    FREED    ISLANDS 

Written  for  the  anniversary  celebration  of 
the  first  of  August,  at  Milton,  l«4ti.  [Origi 
nally  entitled  Lines.] 

A  FEW  brief  years  have  passed  away 

Since  Britain  drove  her  million  slaves 
Beneath  the  tropic's  fiery  ray  : 
God  willed  their  freedom  ;  and  to-day 
Life  blooms  above  those  island  graves  ! 

He  spoke  !  across  the  Carib  Sea, 

We  heard  the  clash  of  breaking  chains, 

And  felt  the  heart-throb  of  the  free, 

The  first  strong  pulse  of  liberty 

Which  thrilled  along  the  bondman's  veins. 

Though  long  delayed,  and  far,  and  slow, 

The  Briton's  triumph  shall  be  ours  : 
Wears  slavery  here  a  prouder  brow 
Than  that  which  twelve  short  years  ago 
Scowled   darkly  from    her   island   bow 
ers  ? 

Mio-hty  alike  for  good  or  ill 

With  Mother-land,  we  fully  share 

The  Saxon  strength,  the  nerve  of  steel, 

The  tireless  energy  of  will, 

The  power  to  do,  the  pride  to  dare. 

What  she  has  done  can  we  not  do  ? 

Our  hour  and  men  are  both  at  hand  ; 
The  blast  which  Freedom's  angel  blew 
O'er  her  green  islands,  echoes  through 

Each  valley  of  our  forest  land. 

Hear  it,  old  Europe  !  we  have  sworn 

The  death  of  slavery.     When  it  falls, 
Look  to  your  vassals  in  their  turn, 
Your  poor  dumb  millions,  crushed  and  worn, 
Your  prisons  and  your  palace  walls  ! 

0  kingly  mockers  !  scoffing  show 

What  deeds  in  Freedom's  name  we  do  ; 
Yet  know  that  every  taunt  ye  throw 
Across  the  waters,  goads  our  slow 

Progression  towards  the  right  and  true. 


Not  always  shall  your  outraged  poor, 
Appalled  by  democratic  crime, 

Grind  as  their  fathers  ground  before  ; 

The  hour  which  sees  our  prison  door 
Swing  wide  shall  be  their  triumph  time. 

On  then,  my  brothers  !  every  blow 

Ye  deal  is  felt  the  wide  earth  through  ; 
Whatever  here  uplifts  the  low 
Or  humbles  Freedom's  hateful  foe, 

Blesses  the  Old  World  through  the  New. 

Take  heart  !       The  promised  hour  draws 
near  ; 

1  hear  the  downward  beat  of  wings, 
And  Freedom's  trumpet  sounding  clear  : 
"  Joy  to  the  people  !   woe  and  fear 

To  new-world  tyrants,  old-world  kings  !  " 


A   LETTER 

Supposed  to  be  written  by  the  chairman  of 
the  "  Central  Clique  "  at  Concord,  N.  H.,  to 
the  Hon.  M.  N.,  Jr.,  at  Washington,  giving  the 
result  of  the  election. 

The  following  verses  were  piiblished  in  the 
Boston  Chronotype  in  1840.  They  refer  to  the 
contest  in  New  Hampshire,  which  resulted  in 
the  defeat  of  the  pro  slavery  Democracy,  and 
in  the  election  of  John  P.  Hale  to  the  United 
States  Senate.  Although  their  authorship  was 
not  acknowledged,  it  was  strongly  suspected. 
They  furnish  a  specimen  of  the  way,  on  the 
whole  rather  good-natured,  in  which  the  lib 
erty-lovers  of  half  a  century  ago  answered  the 
social  and  political  outlawry  and  mob  violence 
to  which  they  were  subjected. 

'T  is  over,  Moses  !     All  is  lost  ! 

I  hear  the  bells  a-ringing  ; 
Of  Pharaoh  and  his  Red  Sea  host 

I  hear  the  Free-Wills  singing. 
We  're  routed,  Moses,  horse  and  foot, 

If  there  be  truth  in  figures, 
With  Federal  Whigs  in  hot  pursuit, 

And  Hale,  and  all  the  "  niggers." 

Alack  !  alas  !  this  month  or  more 

We  've  felt  a  sad  foreboding  ; 
Our  very  dreams  the  burden  bore 

Of  central  cliques  exploding  ; 
Before  our  eyes  a  furnace  shone, 

Where  heads  of  dough  were  roasting. 
And  one  we  took  to  be  your  own 

The  traitor  Hale  was  toasting  I 


A   LETTER 


299 


Our  Belknap  brother  heard  with  awe 

The  Congo  minstrels  playing  ; 
At  Pittstield  Reuben  Leavitt  saw 

The  ghost  of  Storrs  a-praying  ; 
And  Carroll's  woods  were  sad  to  see, 

With  black-winged  crows  a-darting  ; 
And  Black  Snout  looked  on  Ossipee, 

New-glossed  with  Day  and  Martin. 

We  thought  the  "  Old  Man  of  the  Notch  " 

His  face  seemed  changing  wholly  — 
His  lips  seemed  thick  ;  his  nose  seemed  flat ; 

His  misty  hair  looked  woolly  ; 
And  Coos  teamsters,  shrieking,  fled 

From  the  metamorphosed  figure. 
"  Look  there  !  "  they  said,  "  the  Old  Stone 
Head 

Himself  is  turning  nigger  !  " 

The  schoolhouse,  out  of  Canaan  hauled, 

Seemed  turning  on  its  track  again, 
And  like  a  great  swamp-turtle  crawled 

To  Canaan  village  back  again, 
Shook  off  the  mud  and  settled  flat 

Upon  its  underpinning  ; 
A  nigger  on  its  ridge-pole  sat, 

From  ear  to  ear  a-grinning. 

Gray  H d  heard  o'  nights  the  sound 

Of  rail-cars  onward  faring  ; 
Right  over  Democratic  ground 

The  iron  horse  came  tearing. 
A  flag  waved  o'er  that  spectral  train, 

As  high  as  Pittsfield  steeple  ; 
Its  emblem  was  a  broken  chain, 

Its  motto  :  "  To  the  people  !  " 

I  dreamed  that  Charley  took  his  bed, 

With  Hale  for  his  physician  ; 
His  daily  dose  an  old  "  unread 

And  unref  erred  "  petition. 
There  Hayes  and  Tuck  as  nurses  sat, 

As  near  as  near  could  be,  man  ; 
They  leeched  him  with  the  "  Democrat  ; " 

They  blistered  with  the  "  Freeman." 

Ah  !  grisly  portents  !     What  avail 

Your  terrors  of  forewarning  ? 
We  wake  to  find  the  nightmare  Hale 

Astride  our  breasts  at  morning  ! 
From  Portsmouth  lights  to  Indian  stream 

Our  foes  their  throats  are  trying  ; 
The  very  factory-spindles  seem 

To  mock  us  while  they  're  flying. 


The  hills  have  bonfires  ;  in  our  streets 

Flags  flout  us  in  our  faces  ; 
The  newsboys,  peddling  off  their  sheets, 

Are  hoarse  with  our  disgraces. 
In  vain  we  turn,  for  gibing  wit 

And  shoutings  follow  after, 
As  if  old  Kearsarge  had  split 

His  granite  sides  with  laughter  ! 

What  boots  it  that  we  pelted  out 

The  anti-slavery  women, 
And  bravely  strewed  their  hall  about 

With  tattered  lace  and  trimming  ? 
Was  it  for  such  a  sad  reverse 

Our  mobs  became  peacemakers, 
And  kept  their  tar  and  wooden  horse 

For  Englishmen  and  Quakers  ? 

For  this  did  shifty  Atherton 

Make  gag  rules  for  the  Great  House  ? 
Wiped  we  for  this  our  feet  upon 

Petitions  in  our  State  House  ? 
Plied  we  for  this  our  axe  of  doom, 

No  stubborn  traitor  sparing, 
Who  scoffed  at  our  opinion  loom, 

And  took  to  homespun  wearing  ? 

Ah,  Moses  !  hard  it  is  to  scan 

These  crooked  providences, 
Deducing  from  the  wisest  plan 

The  saddest  consequences  ! 
Strange  that,  in  trampling  as  was  meet 

The  nigger-men's  petition, 
We  sprung  a  mine  beneath  our  feet 

Which  opened  up  perdition. 

How  goodly,  Moses,  was  the  game 

In  which  we  've  long  been  actors, 
Supplying  freedom  with  the  name 

And  slavery  with  the  practice  ! 
Our     smooth     words     fed      the     people's 
mouth, 

Their  ears  our  party  rattle  ; 
We  kept  them  headed  to  the  South, 

As  drovers  do  their  cattle. 

But  now  our  game  of  politics 

The  world  at  large  is  learning  ; 
And  men  grown  gray  in  all  our  tricks 

State's  evidence  are  turning. 
Votes  and  preambles  subtly  spun 

They  cram  with  meanings  louder, 
And  load  the  Democratic  gun 

With  abolition  powder. 


300 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


The  ides  of  June  !     Woe  worth  the  day 

When,  turning  all  things  over, 
The  traitor  Hale  shall  make  his  hay 

From  Democratic  clover  ! 
Who  then  shall  take  him  in  the  law, 

Who  punish  crime  so  flagrant  ? 
Whose  hand  shall  serve,  whose  pen  shall 
draw, 

A  writ  against  that  "  vagrant  "  ? 

Alas  !  no  hopo  is  left  us  here, 

And  one  can  only  pine  for 
The  envied  place  of  overseer 

Of  slaves  in  Carolina  ! 
Pray,  Moses,  give  Calhoun  the  wink, 

And  see  what  pay  he  's  giving ! 
We  've  practised  long  enough,  we  think, 

To  know  the  art  of  driving. 

And  for  the  faithful  rank  and  file, 

Who  know  their  proper  stations, 
Perhaps  it  may  be  worth  their  while 

To  try  the  rice  plantations. 
Let  Hale  exult,  let  Wilson  scoff, 

To  see  us  southward  scamper  ; 
The  slaves,  we  know,  are  "  better  off 

Than  laborers  in  New  Hampshire  !  " 


LINES 

FROM  A  LETTER  TO  A  YOUNG  CLERICAL 
FRIEND 

A  STRENGTH  Thy  service  cannot  tire, 
A  faith  which  doubt  can  never  dim, 

A  heart  of  love,  a  lip  of  fire, 

O  Freedom's  God  !  be  Thou  to  him  ! 

Speak   through    him  words  of   power  and 
fear, 

As  through  Thy  prophet  bards  of  old, 
And  let  a  scornful  people  hear 

Once  more  Thy  Sinai-thunders  rolled. 

For  lying  lips  Thy  blessing  seek, 

And  hands  of  blood  are  raised  to  Thee, 

And  on  Thy  children,  crushed  and  weak, 
The  oppressor  plants  his  kneeling  knee. 

Let  then,  O  God  !  Thy  servant  dare 
Thy  truth  in  all  its  power  to  tell, 

Unmask  the  priestly  thieves,  and  tear 
The  Bible  from  the  grasp  of  hell ! 


From  hollow  rite  and  narrow  span 
Of  law  and  sect  by  Thee  released, 

Oh,  teach  him  that  the  Christian  man 
L*  holier  than  the  Jewish  priest. 

Chase  back  the  shadows,  gray  and  olds 
Of  the  dead  ages  from  his  'way, 

And  let  his  hopeful  eyes  behold 
The  dawn  of  Thy  millennial  day; 

That  day  when  fettered  limb  and  mind 
Shall  know  the  truth  which  maketh  free, 

And  he  alone  who  loves  his  kind 

Shall,  childlike,  claim  the  love  of  Thee ! 


DANIEL   NEALL 

Dr.  Neall,  a  worthy  disciple  of  that  vener 
ated  philanthropist,  Warner  Mifflin,  whom  the 
Girondist  statesman,  Jean  Pierre  Brissot,  pro 
nounced  "  an  angel  of  mercy,  the  best  man  he 
ever  knew,"  was  one  of  the  noble  band  of 
Pennsylvania  abolitionists,  whose  bravery  was 
equalled  only  by  their  gentleness  and  tender- 


FRIEND  of  the  Slave,  and  yet  the  friend  of 

all; 

Lover  of  peace,  yet  ever  foremost  when 
The  need  of  battling  Freedom  called  for 

men 

To  plant  the  banner  on  the  outer  wall ; 
Gentle  and  kindly,  ever  at  distress 
Melted  to  more  than  woman's  tenderness, 
Yet  firm  and  steadfast,  at  his  duty's  post 
Fronting  the  violence  of  a  maddened  host, 
Like  some  gray  rock  from  which  the  waves 

are  tossed  ! 
Knowing  his  deeds  of  love,  men  questioned 

not 
The  faitli  of  one  whose  walk  and  word 

were  right  ; 
Who  tranquilly  in   Life's  great  task-field 

wrought, 

And,  side  by  side  with  evil,  scarcely  caught 

A  stain  upon  his  pilgrim  garb  of  white  : 

Prompt  to  redress  another's  wrong,  his  own 

Leaving  to  Time  and  Truth  and  Penitence 

alone. 

II 

Such  was  our  friend.     Formed  on  the  good 

old  plan, 
A  true  and  brave  and    downright    honesi 

man ! 


TO   DELAWARE 


He  blew  no  trumpet  in  the  market-place, 
Nor  in  the  church  with  hypocritic  face 
Supplied  with   cant  the  lack  of  Christian 

grace  ; 
Loathing   pretence,  he    did  with   cheerful 

will 
What  others  talked  of  while    their  hands 

were  still ; 
And,  while  "  Lord,  Lord  !  "  the  pious  tyrants 

cried, 

Who,  in  the  poor,  their  Master  crucified, 
His  daily  prayer,  far  better  understood 
In    acts    than    words,  was    simply  doing 

good. 

So  calm,  so  constant  was  his  rectitude, 
That  by  his  loss  alone  we  know  its  worth, 
And  feel  how  true  a  man  has  walked  with 

us  on  earth. 


SONG    OF   SLAVES    IN   THE 
DESERT 

[Suggested   by   a  passage  in    Richardson's 
Journal  in  Africa.] 

WHERE  are  we  going  ?  where  are  we  going, 

Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 
Lord  of  peoples,  lord  of  lands, 
Look  across  these  shining  sands, 
Through  the  furnace  of  the  noon, 
Through  the  white  light  of  the  moon. 
Strong  the  Ghiblee  wind  is  blowing, 
Strange  and  large  the  world  is  growing  ! 
Speak  and  tell  us  where  we  are  going, 

W  here  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

Bornou  land  was  rich  and  good, 
Wells  of  water,  fields  of  food, 
Dourra  fields,  and  bloom  of  bean, 
And  the  palm-tree  cool  and  green  : 
Bornou  laud  we  see  no  longer, 
Here  we  thirst  and  here  we  hunger, 
Here  the  Moor- man  smites  in  anger ." 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

When  we  went  from  Bornou  land, 
We  were  like  the  leaves  and  sand, 
We  were  many,  we  are  few  ; 
Life  has  one,  and  death  has  two  : 
Whitened  bones  our  path  are  showing, 
Thou  All-seeing,  thou  All-knowing  ! 
Hear  us,  tell  us,  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


Moons  of  marches  from  our  eyes 
Bornou  land  behind  us  lies  ; 
Stranger  round  us  day  by  day 
Bends  the  desert  circle  gray  ; 
Wild  the  waves  of  sand  are  flowing, 
Hot  the  winds  above  them  blowing,  — 
Lord  of  all  things  !  where  are  we  going  ? 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 

We  are  weak,  but  Thou  art  strong  ; 
Short  our  lives,  but  Thine  is  long  ; 
We  are  blind,  but  Thou  hast  eyes  ; 
We  are  fools,  but  Thou  art  wise  ! 
Thou,  our  morrow's  pathway  knowing 
Through  the  strange  world  round  us  grow 
ing* 

Hear  us,  tell  us  where  are  we  going, 
Where  are  we  going,  Rubee  ? 


TO    DELAWARE 

Written  during  the  discussion  in  the  Legis 
lature  of  that  State,  in  the  winter  of  1846-47, 
of  a  bill  for  the  abolition  of  slavery. 

THRICE  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the  East, 

To  the  strong  tillers  of  a  rugged  home, 
With  spray- wet  locks  to    Northern  winds 

released, 
And   hardy  feet    o'erswept   by   ocean's 

foam  ; 
And  to  the  young  nymphs  of  the  golden 

West, 
Whose    harvest   mantles,    fringed    with 

prairie  bloom, 
Trail   in  the  sunset,  —  O   redeemed   and 

blest, 
To   the   warm    welcome    of   thy    sisters 

come  ! 
Broad  Pennsylvania,  down  her   sail-white 

bay 
Shall  give  thee  joy,  and  Jersey  from  her 

plains, 

And  the  great  lakes,  where  echo,  free  alway, 
Moaned  never  shoreward  with  the  clank 

of  chains, 
Shall  weave  new  sun-bows  in  their  tossing 

spray, 

And  all  their  waves  keep  grateful  holiday. 
And,  smiling  on  thee  through  her  mountain 

rains, 

Vermont  shall  bless  thee  ;  and  the  gran 
ite  peaks, 


$02 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


And  vast  Katahdin  o'er  his  woods,   shall 

wear 
Their  snow-crowns  brighter    in    the    cold, 

keen  air  ; 
And    Massachusetts,    with   her   rugged 

cheeks 
O'erruu  with  grateful  tears,  shall  turn  to 

thee, 

When,  at  thy  bidding,  the  electric  wire 
Shall  tremble  northward  with  its  words 

of  fire  ; 

Glory  and  praise  to  God  !  another  State  is 
free  ! 


YORKTOWN 

Dr.  Thacher.  surgeon  in  Scammel's  regi 
ment,  in  his  description  of  the  siege  of  York- 
town,  says  :  "  The  labor  on  the  Virginia  plan 
tations  is  performed  altogether  by  a  species 
of  the  human  race  cruelly  wrested  from  their 
native  country,  and  doomed  to  perpetual  bond 
age,  while  their  masters  are  manfully  contend 
ing  for  freedom  and  the  natural  rights  of  man. 
Sich  is  the  inconsistency  of  human  nature." 
Eighteen  hundred  slaves  were  found  at  York- 
town,  after  its  surrender,  and  restored  to  their 
masters.  Well  was  it  said  by  Dr.  Barnes,  in 
his  late  work  on  Slavery  :  ' '  No  slave  was  any 
nearer  his  freedom  after  the  surrender  of  York- 
town  than  when  Patrick  Henry  first  taught  the 
notes  of  liberty  to  echo  among  the  hills  and 
vales  of  Virginia." 

FROM  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still, 
Two  lines  stretch  far  o'er  vale  and  hill  : 
Who  curbs  his  steed  at  head  of  one  ? 
Hark  !  the  low  murmur  :  Washington  ! 
Who  bends  his  keen,  approving  glance, 
Where  down  the  gorgeous  line  of  France 
Shine  knightly  star  and  plume  of  snow  ? 
Thou  too  art  victor,  Rochambeau  ! 

The  earth  which  bears  this  calm  array 
Shook  with  the  war-charge  yesterday, 
Ploughed  deep  with  hurrying  hoof  and 

wheel, 

Shot-sown  and  bladed  thick  with  steel  ; 
October's  clear  and  noonday  sun 
Paled  in  the  breath-smoke  of  the  gun, 
And  down  night's  double  blackness  fell, 
Like  a  dropped  star,  the  blazing  shell. 

Now  all  is  hushed  :  the  gleaming  lines 
Stand  moveless  as  the  neighboring  pines  ; 


While    through    them,    sullen,    grim,    and 

slow, 

The  conquered  hosts  of  England  go  : 
O'Hara's  brow  belies  his  dress, 
Gay  Tarleton's  troop  rides  banneiless  : 
Shout,  from  thy  fired  and  wasted  homes, 
Thy  scourge,  Virginia,  captive  conies  I 

Nor  thou  alone  :  with  one  glad  voice 

Let  all  thy  sister  States  rejoice  ; 

Let  Freedom,  in  whatever  clime 

She  waits  with  sleepless  eye  her  time, 

Shouting  from  cave  and  mountain  wood 

Make  glad  her  desert  solitude, 

While  they  who  hunt  her  quail  with  fear ; 

The  New  World's  chain  lies  broken  here  I 

But  who  are  they,  who,  cowering,  wait 
Within  the  shattered  fortress  gate  ? 
Dark  tillers  of  Virginia's  soil, 
Classed  with  the  battle's  common  spoil, 
With  household  stuffs,  and  fowl,  and  swine, 
With  Indian  weed  and  planters'  wine, 
With  stolen  beeves,  and  foraged  corn, — 
Are  they  not  men,  Virginian  born  ? 

Oh,  veil  your  faces,  young  and  brave  ! 
Sleep,  Scammel,  in  thy  soldier  grave  ! 
Sons  of  the  Northland,  ye  who  set 
Stout  hearts  against  the  bayonet, 
And  pressed  with  steady  footfall  near 
The  moated  battery's  blazing  tier, 
Turn  your  scarred  faces  from  the  sight, 
Let  shame  do  homage  to  the  right  ! 

Lo  !    fourscore   years   have   passed  ;   and 

where 

The  Gallic  bugles  stirred  the  air, 
And,  through   breached   batteries,  side  by 

side, 

To  victory  stormed  the  hosts  allied, 
And  brave  foes  grounded,  pale  with  pain, 
The  arms  they  might  not  lift  again, 
As  abject  as  in  that  old  day 
The  slave  still  toils  his  life  away. 

Oh,  fields  still  green  and  fre^h  in  story, 
Old  days  of  pride,  old  names  of  glory, 
Old  marvels  of  the  tongue  and  pen, 
Old   thoughts  which  stirred  the  hearts  of 

men, 

Ye  spared  the  wrong  ;  and  over  all 
Behold  the  avenging  shadow  fall  J 


RANDOLPH   OF   ROANOKE 


303 


5Tour     world- wide     honor      stained     with 

shame,  — 
Four  freedom's  self  a  hollow  name  ! 

Where  's  now  the  flag-  of  that  old  war  ? 
Where  flows  its  stripe  ?     Where  burns  its 

star? 

Bear  witness,  Palo  Alto's  day, 
Dark  Vale  of  Palms,  red  Monterey, 
Where  Mexic  Freedom,  young  and  weak, 
Fleshes  the  Northern  eagle's  beak  ; 
Symbol  of  terror  and  despair, 
Of  chains  and  slaves,  go  seek  it  there  ! 

Laugh,  Prussia,  midst  thy  iron  ranks  ! 
Laugh,  Russia,  from  thy  Neva's  banks  ! 
Brave  sport  to  see  the  fledgling  born 
Of  Freedom  by  its  parent  torn  ! 
Safe  now  is  Speilberg's  dungeon  cell, 
Safe  drear  Siberia's  frozen  hell  : 
With  Slavery's  flag  o'er  both  unrolled, 
What  of  the  New  World  fears  the  Old  ? 


RANDOLPH    OF    ROANOKE 

[Though  not  published  until  1847,  several 
lines  indicate  that  the  poem  was  written  not 
long  after  Randolph's  death  in  183:3.  In  a  letter 
published  in  July,  1833,  Whittier  says :  "  In  the 
last  hour  of  his  [Randolph's]  existence,  when 
his  soul  was  struggling-  from  its  broken  tene 
ment,  his  latest  effort  was  the  confirmation  of 
this  generous  act  of  a  former  period  [the  manu 
mission  of  his  slaves].  Light  rest  the  turf  upon 
^im.  beneath  his  patrimonial  oaks !  The  prayers 
of  many  hearts  made  happy  by  his  benevolence 
nhall  linger  over  his  grave  and  bless  it."] 

O  MOTHER  EARTH  !  upon  thy  lap 

Thy  weary  ones  receiving, 
And  o'er  them,  silent  as  a  dream, 

Thy  grassy  mantle  weaving, 
Fold  softly  in  thy  long  embrace 

That  heart  so  worn  and  broken, 
And  cool  its  pulse  of  fire  beneath 

Thy  shadows  old  and  oaken. 

Shut  out  from  him  the  bitter  word 

And  serpent  hiss  of  scorning  ; 
Nor  let  the  storms  of  yesterday 

Disturb  his  quiet  morning. 
Breathe  over  him  forgetfulness 

Of  all  save  deeds  of  kindness, 
And,  save  to  smiles  of  grateful  eyes, 

Press  down  his  lids  in  blindness. 


There,  where  with  living  ear  and  eye 

He  heard  Potomac's  flowing, 
And,  through  his  tall  ancestral  trees, 

Saw  autumn's  sunset  glowing, 
He  sleeps,  still  looking  to  the  west, 

Beneath  the  dark  wood  shadow, 
As  if  he  still  would  see  the  sun 

Sink  down  on  wave  and  meadow. 

Bard,  Sage,  and  Tribune  !  in  himself 

All  moods  of  mind  contrasting,  — 
The  tenderest  wail  of  human  woe, 

The  scorn  like  lightning  blasting  ; 
The  pathos  which  from  rival  eyes 

Unwilling  tears  could  summon, 
The  stinging  taunt,  the  fiery  burst 

Of  hatred  scarcely  human  ! 

Mirth,  sparkling  like  a  diamond  showei 

From  lips  of  life-long  sadness  ; 
Clear  picturings  of  majestic  thought 

Upon  a  ground  of  madness  ; 
And  over  all  Romance  and  Song 

A  classic  beauty  throwing, 
And  laurelled  Clio  at  his  side 

Her  storied  pages  showing. 

All  parties  feared  him  :  each  in  turn 

Beheld  its  schemes  disjointed, 
As  right  or  left  his  fatal  glance 

And  spectral  finger  pointed. 
Sworn  foe  of  Cant,  he  smote  it  down 

With  trenchant  wit  unsparing, 
And,  mocking,  rent  with  ruthless  hand 

The  robe  Pretence  was  wearing. 

Too  honest  or  too  proud  to  feign 

A  love  he  never  cherished, 
Beyond  Virginia's  border  line 

His  patriotism  perished. 
While  others  hailed  in  distant  skies 

Our  eagle's  dusky  pinion, 
He  only  saw  the  mountain  bird 

Stoop  o'er  his  Old  Dominion  ! 

Still    through    each    change    of    fortune 
strange, 

Racked  nerve,  and  brain  all  burning, 
His  loving  faith  in  Mother-land 

Knew  never  shade  of  turning  ; 
By  Britain's  lakes,  by  Neva's  tide, 

Whatever  sky  was  o'er  him, 
He  heard  her  rivers'  rushing  sound, 

Her  blue  peaks  rose  before  him. 


3°4 


ANTI-SLAVERY    POEMS 


He  held  his  slaves,  yet  made  withal 

No  false  and  vain  pretences, 
Nor  paid  a  lying  priest  to  seek 

For  Scriptural  defences. 
His  harshest  words  of  proud  rebuke, 

His  bitterest  taunt  and  scorning, 
Fell  fire-like  on  the  Northern  brow 

That  bent  to  him  in  fawning. 

He  held  his  slaves  ;  yet  kept  the  while 

His  reverence  for  the  Human  ; 
In  the  dark  vassals  of  his  will 

He  saw  but  Man  and  Woman  ! 
No  hunter  of  God's  outraged  poor 

His  Roanoke  valley  entered  ; 
No  trader  in  the  souls  of  men 

Across  his  threshold  ventured. 

And  when  the  old  and  wearied  man 

Lay  down  for  his  last  sleeping, 
And  at  his  side,  a  slave  no  more, 

His  brother-man  stood  weeping, 
His  latest  thought,  his  latest  breath, 

To  Freedom's  duty  giving, 
With  failing  tongue  and  trembling  hand 

The  dying  blest  the  living. 

Oh,  never  bore  his  ancient  State 

A  truer  son  or  braver  ! 
None  trampling  with  a  calmer  scorn 

On  foreign  hate  or  favor. 
He  knew  her  faults,  yet  never  stooped 

His  proud  and  manly  feeling 
To  poor  excuses  of  the  wrong 

Or  meanness  of  concealing. 

But  none  beheld  with  clearer  eye 

The  plague-spot  o'er  her  spreading, 
None  heard  more  sure  the  steps  of  Doom 

Along  her  future  treading. 
For  her  as  for  himself  he  spake, 

When,  his  gaunt  frame  upbracing, 
He  traced  with  dying  hand  "  Remorse  !  " 

And  perished  in  the  tracing. 

As  from  the  grave  where  Henry  sleeps. 

From  Vernon's  weeping  willow, 
And  from  the  grassy  pall  which  hides 

The  Sage  of  Monticello, 
So  from  the  leaf-strewn  burial-stone 

Of  Randolph's  lowly  dwelling, 
Virginia  !  o'er  thy  land  of  slaves 

A  warning  voice  is  swelling  ! 


And  hark  !  from  thy  deserted  fields 

Are  sadder  warnings  spoken, 
From  quenched  hearths,  where  thy  exiled 
sons 

Their  household  gods  have  broken. 
The  curse  is  on  thee,  —  wolves  for  men, 

And  briers  for  corn-sheaves  giving  ! 
Oh,  more  than  all  thy  dead  renown 

Were  now  one  hero  living  ! 


THE    LOST    STATESMAN 


Written  on  hearing1  of  the  death  of  Silas 
Wright  of  New  York.  [Originally  entitled 
Lines.] 

As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm  at 

_  night, 
While  turning  shoreward,  where  a  bea^ 

con  shone, 
Meet  the  walled  blackness  of  the  heaven 

alone, 

So,  on  the  turbulent  waves  of  party  tossed, 
In  gloom  and  tempest,  men  have  seen  thy 

light 
Quenched  in  the  darkness.     At  thy  hour 

of  noon, 
While  life  was  pleasant  to  thy  undimmed 

sight, 

And,  day  by  day,  within  thy  spirit  grew 
A  holier  hope  than  young  Ambition  knew, 
As  through  thy  rural  quiet,  not  in  vain, 
Pierced  the  sharp  thrill  of  Freedom's  cry 

of  pain, 
Man    of   the  millions,  thou  art  lost  too 

soon  ! 
Portents    at     which    the     bravest     stand 

aghast,  — 
The  birth-throes  of  a  Future,  strange  and 

vast, 
Alarm  the  land  ;  yet  thou,  so  wise  and 

strong, 

Suddenly  summoned  to  the  burial  bed, 
Lapped   in  its  slumbers  deep  and  ever 

long, 

Hear'st  not  the  tumult  surging  overhead. 
Who  now  shall  rally  Freedom's  scattering 

host? 

Who  wear  the  mantle  of  the  leader  lost  ? 
Who    stay   the    march    of    slavery  ?     He 
whose  voice 


THE    SLAVES    OF    MARTINIQUE 


305 


Hath    called   thee    from    thy   task-field 

shall  not  lack 
Yet   bolder  champions,  to  beat  bravely 

back 
The  wrong  which,  through  his  poor  ones, 

reaches  Him  : 

Yet   firmer   hands  shall  Freedom's  torch 
lights  trim, 
And  wave  them  high  across  the  abysmal 

black, 

Till  bound,  dumb  millions  there  shall  see 
them  and  rejoice. 


THE   SLAVES    OF   MARTINIQUE 

Suggested  by  a  daguerreotype  taken  from 
a  small  French  engraving  of  two  negro  figures, 
sent  to  the  writer  by  Oliver  Johnson. 

BEAMS  of  noon,  like  burning  lances,  through 
the  tree-tops  flash  and  glisten, 

As  she  stands  before  her  lover,  with  raised 
face  to  look  and  listen. 

Dark,  but  comely,  like  the  maiden  in  the 

ancient  Jewish  song  : 
Scarcely  has  the  toil  of  task-fields  done  her 

graceful  beauty  wrong. 

He,  the  strong  one  and  the  manly,  with  the 

vassal's  garb  and  hue, 
Holding  still  his  spirit's  birthright,  to  his 

higher  nature  true  ; 

Hiding  deep  the  strengthening  purpose  of 

a  freeman  in  his  heart, 
As  the  gregree  holds  his  Fetich  from  the 

white  man's  gaze  apart. 

Ever  foremost  of  his  comrades,  when  the 

driver's  morning  horn 
Calls  away   to   stifling   mill-house,  to   the 

fields  of  cane  and  corn  : 

Fall  the  keen  and  burning  lashes  never  on 

his  back  or  limb  ; 
Scarce  with  look  or  word  of  censure,  turns 

the  driver  unto  him. 

Yet,  his  brow  is  always  thoughtful,  and  his 

eye  is  hard  and  stern  ; 
Slavery's  last  and  humblest  lesson  he  has 

never  deigned  to  learn. 


And,  at  evening,  when  his  comrades  dance 
before  their  master's  door, 

Folding  arms  and  knitting  forehead,  stand: 
he  silent  evermore. 

God   be    praised  for  every   instinct  which 

rebels  against  a  lot 
Where  the  brute  survives  the  human,  and 

man's  upright  form  is  not ! 

As  the  serpent-like  bejuco  winds  his  spiral 

fold  on  fold 
Round   the    tall  and   stately  ceiba,  till   it 

withers  in  his  hold  ; 

Slow   decays   the    forest    monarch,   closer 

girds  the  fell  embrace, 
Till  the  tree  is  seen  no  longer,  and  the  vine 

is  in  its  place  ; 

So  a  base  and  bestial  nature  round  the  vas 
sal's  manhood  twines, 

And  the  spirit  wastes  beneath  it,  like  the 
ceiba  choked  with  vines. 

God  is   Love,  saith  the  Evangel  ;  and  our 

world  of  woe  and  sin 
Is  made  light  and  happy  only  when  a  Love 

is  shining  in. 

Ye  whose  lives  are  free  as  sunshine,  finding, 
wheresoe'er  ye  roam, 

Smiles  of  welcome,  looks  of  kindness,  mak 
ing  all  the  world  like  home  ; 

In   the  veins  of  whose  affections  kindred 

blood  is  but  a  part, 
Of  one  kindly  current  throbbing  from  the 

universal  heart  ; 

Can  ye  know  the  deeper  meaning  of  a  love 

in  Slavery  nursed, 
Last  flower  of  a  lost  Eden,  blooming  in  that 

Soil  accursed  ? 

Love  of  Home,  and  Love  of  Woman  !  — 
dear  to  all,  but  doubly  dear 

To  the  heart  whose  pulses  eLewhere  meas 
ure  only  hate  and  fear. 

All  around  the  desert  circles,  underneath  a 

brazen  sky, 
Only  one  green  spot  remaining  where  the 

dew  is  never  dry  i 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


From  the  horror  of  that  desert,  from  its 

atmosphere  of  hell, 
Turns    the    fainting   spirit  thither,  as   the 

diver  seeks  his  bell. 

JT  is  the  fervid  tropic  noontime  ;  faint  and 

low  the  sea-waves  beat  ; 
Hazy  rise  the  inland  mountains  through  the 

glimmer  of  the  heat,  — 

Where,  through  mingled  leaves  and  blos 
soms,  arrowy  sunbeams  flash  and 
glisten, 

Speaks  her  lover  to  the  slave-girl,  and  she 
lifts  her  head  to  listen  :  — 

J<  We  shall  live  as  slaves  no  longer  !  Free 
dom's  hour  is  close  at  hand  ! 

Rocks  her  bark  upon  the  waters,  rests  the 
boat  upon  the  strand  ! 

"  I  have  seen  the  Haytien  Captain  ;  I  have 

seen  his  swarthy  crew, 
Haters  of  the  pallid  faces,  to  their  race  and 

color  true. 

"  They  have  sworn  to  wait  our  coming  till 
the  night  has  passed  its  noon, 

And  the  gray  and  darkening  waters  roll 
above  the  sunken  moon  !  " 

Oh,  the  blessed  hope  of  freedom  !  how  with 
joy  and  glad  surprise, 

For  an  instant  throbs  her  bosom,  for  an  in 
stant  beam  her  eyes  ! 

But  she  looks  across  the  valley,  where  her 

mother's  hut  is  seen, 
Through   the  snowy  bloom  of   coffee,  and 

the  lemon-leaves  so  green. 

And  she  answers,  sad  and  earnest  :  "  It 
were  wrong  for  thee  to  stay  ; 

God  hath  heard  thy  prayer  for  freedom, 
and  His  finger  points  the  way. 

"  Well  I  know  with  what  endurance,  for  the 

sake  of  me  and  mine, 
Thou  hast  borne  too  long  a  burden  never 

meant  for  souls  like  thine. 

"  Go  ;  and  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when 
our  last  farewell  is  o'er, 

on    our  place  of  parting,  I  will 
bless  thee  from  the  shore. 


"  But  for  me,  my  mother,  lying  on  her  sick 
bed  all  the  day, 

Lifts  her  weary  head  to  watch  me,  coming 
through  the  twilight  gray. 

"  Should  I  leave  her  sick  and  helpless,  even 
freedom,  shared  with  thee, 

Would  be  sadder  far  than  bondage,  lonely 
toil,  and  stripes  to  me. 

"  For  my  heart  would  die  within  me,  and 
my  brain  would  soon  be  wild  ; 

I  should  hear  my  mother  calling  through 
the  twilight  for  her  child  i  " 

Blazing  upward  from  the  ocean,  shines  the 

sun  of  morning-time, 

Through  the  coffee-trees  in  blossom,  and 
green  hedges  of  the  lime. 

Side  by  side,  amidst  the  slave-gang,  toil  the 

lover  and  the  maid  ; 
Wherefore  looks  he  o'er  the  waters,  leaning 

forward  on  his  spade  ? 

Sadly  looks  he,  deeply  sighs  he  :  'tis  the 

Haytien's  sail  he  sees, 
Like  a  white  cloud  of  the  mountains,  driven 

seaward  by  the  breeze  ! 

But  his  arm  a  light  hand  presses,  and  he 

hears  a  low  voice  call  : 
Hate  of  Slavery,  hope  of  Freedom,  Love  is 

mightier  than  all. 


THE  CURSE  OF  THE  CHARTER- 
BREAKERS 

The  rights  and  liberties  affirmed  by  Magna 
Charta  were  deemed  of  such  importance,  in  the 
thirteenth  century,  that  the  Bishops,  twice  & 
year,  with  tapers  burning1  and  in  their  pontifi 
cal  robes,  pronounced,  in  the  presence  of  the 
king  and  the  representatives  of  the  estates  of 
England,  the  greater  excommunication  against 
the  infringer  of  that  instrument.  The  impos 
ing  ceremony  took  place  in  the  great  Hall  of 
Westminster. 

IN  Westminster's  royal  halls, 
Robed  in  their  pontificals, 
England's  ancient  prelates  stood 
For  the  people's  right  and  good. 

Closed  around  the  waiting  crowd, 
Dark  and  still,  like  winter's  cloud  « 


THE   CURSE   OF   THE   CHARTER-BREAKERS 


307 


King  and  council,  lord  and  knight, 
Squire  and  yeoman,  stood  in  sight  ; 

Stood  to  hear  the  priest  rehearse, 
In  God's  name,  the  Church's  curse, 
By  the  tapers  round  them  lit, 
Slowly,  sternly  uttering  it. 

:'  Right  of  voice  in  framing  laws, 
Right  of  peers  to  try  each  cause  ; 
Peasant. homestead,  mean  and  small, 
Sacred  as  the  monarch's  hall,  — 

"  Whoso  lays  his  hand  on  these, 
England's  ancient  liberties  ; 
Whoso  breaks,  by  word  or  deed, 
England's  vow  at  Runnymede; 

«  Be  he  Prince  or  belted  knight, 
Whatsoe'er  his  rank  or  might, 
If  the  highest,  then  the  worst, 
Let  him  live  and  die  accursed. 

"  Thou,  who  to  Thy  Church  hast  given 
Keys  alike  of  hell  and  heaven, 
Make  our  word  and  witness  sure, 
Let  the  curse  we  speak  endure  !  " 

Silent,  while  that  curse  was  said, 
Every  bare  and  listening  head 
Bowed  in  reverent  awe,  and  then 
All  the  people  said,  Amen  ! 

Seven  times  the  bells  have  tolled, 
For  the  centuries  gray  and  old, 
Since  that  stoled  and  mitred  band 
Cursed  the  tyrants  of  their  land. 

Since  the  priesthood,  like  a  tower, 
Stood  between  the  poor  and  power  ; 
And  the  wronged  and  trodden  down 
Blessed  the  abbot's  shaven  crown. 

Gone,  thank  God,  their  wizard  spell, 
Lost  their  keys  of  heaven  and  hell  ; 
Yet  I  sigh  for  men  as  bold 
As  those  bearded  priests  of  old. 

Now  too  oft  the  priesthood  wait 
At  the  threshold  of  the  state  ; 
Waiting  for  the  beck  and  nod 
Of  its  power  as  law  and  God. 

Fraud  exults,  while  solemn  words 
Sanctify  his  stolen  hoards  ; 


Slavery  laughs,  while  ghostly  lips 
Bless  his  manacles  and  whips. 

Not  on  them  the  poor  rely, 

Not  to  them  looks  liberty, 

Who  with  fawning  falsehood  cower 

To  the  wrong,  when  clothed  with  power* 

Oh,  to  see  them  meanly  cling, 
Round  the  master,  round  the  king, 
Sported  with,  and  sold  and  bought,  — 
Pitifuller  sight  is  not ! 

Tell  me  not  that  this  must  be  : 
God's  true  priest  is  always  free  ; 
Free  the  needed  truth  to  speak, 
Right  the  wronged,  and  raise  the  weak 

Not  to  fawn  on  wealth  and  state, 
Leaving  Lazarus  at  the  gate  ; 
Not  to  peddle  creeds  like  wares  ; 
Not  to  mutter  hireling  prayers  ; 

Nor  to  paint  the  new  life's  bliss 
On  the  sable  ground  of  this  ; 
Golden  streets  for  idle  knave, 
Sabbath  rest  for  weary  slave  ! 

Not  for  words  and  works  like  these5 
Priest  of  God,  thy  mission  is  ; 
But  to  make  earth's  desert  glad, 
In  its  Eden  greenness  clad  ; 

And  to  level  manhood  bring 
Lord  and  peasant,  serf  and  king  ; 
And  the  Christ  of  God  to  find 
In  the  humblest  of  thy  kind  ! 

Thine  to  work  as  well  as  pray, 
Clearing  thorny  wrongs  awajr  ; 
Plucking  up  the  weeds  of  sin, 
Letting  heaven's  warm  sunshine  in 

Watching  on  the  hills  of  Faith  ; 
Listening  what  the  spirit  saith, 
Of  the  dim-seen  light  afar, 
Growing  like  a  nearing  star. 

God's  interpreter  art  thou 
To  the  waiting  ones  below  ; 
'Twixt  them  and  its  light  midway 
Heralding  the  better  day  ; 

Catching  gleams  of  temple  spires, 
Hearing  notes  of  angel  choirs, 


308 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Where,  as  yet  unseen  of  them, 
Comes  the  New  Jerusalem  ! 

Like  the  seer  of  Patmos  gazing, 
On  the  glory  downward  blazing  ; 
Till  upon  Earth's  grateful  sod 
Rests  the  City  of  our  God ! 


P.EAN 

This  poem  indicates  the  exultation  of  the 
anti-slavery  party,  in  view  of  the  revolt  of  the 
friends  of  Martin  Van  Buren  in  New  York  from 
the  Democratic  Presidential  nomination  in 

1848. 

Now,  joy  and  thanks  forevermore  ! 

The  dreary  night  has  wellnigh  passed, 
The  slumbers  of  the  North  are  o'er, 

The  Giant  stands  erect  at  last  1 

More  than  we  hoped  in  that  dark  time 
When,  faint  with  watching,  few  and  worn, 

We  saw  no  welcome  day-star  climb 
The  cold  gray  pathway  of  the  morn  ! 

O  weary  hours  !     O  night  of  years  ! 

What  storms  our  darkling  pathway  swept, 
Where,  beating  back  our  thronging  fears, 

By  Faith  alone  our  march  we  kept. 

How  jeered  the  scoffing  crowd  behind, 
How  mocked  before  the  tyrant  train, 

As,  one  by  one,  the  true  and  kind 
Fell  fainting  in  our  path  of  pain  ! 

They  died,  their  brave  hearts  breaking  slow, 

But,  self-forgetful  to  the  last, 
In  words  of  cheer  and  bugle  blow 

Their  breath  upon  the  darkness  passed. 

A  mighty  host,  on  either  hand, 

Stood  waiting  for  the  dawn  of  day 

To  crush  like  reeds  our  feeble  band  ; 

The  morn  has  come,  and  where  are  they  ? 

Troop  after  troop  their  line  forsakes  ; 

With  peace-white  banners  waving  free, 
And  from  our  own  the  glad  shout  breaks, 

Of  Freedom  and  Fraternity  ! 

Like  mist  before  the  growing  light, 
The  hostile  cohorts  melt  away  ; 

Our  frowning  foemen  of  the  night 
Are  brothers  at  the  dawn  of  day  ! 


As  unto  these  repentant  ones 

We  open  wide  our  toil-worn  ranks, 

Along  our  line  a  murmur  runs 

Of  song,  and  praise,  and  grateful  thanks. 

Sound  for  the  onset  !     Blast  on  blast ! 

Till  Slavery's  minions  cower  and  quail  ; 
One  charge  of  fire  shall  drive  them  fast 

Like  chaff  before  our  Northern  gale  ! 

O  prisoners  in  your  house  of  pain, 

Dumb,  toiling  millions,  bound  and  sold, 

Look  !    stretched  o'er  Southern  vale  and 

plain, 
The  Lord's  delivering  hand  behold  I 

Above  the  tyrant's  pride  of  power, 
His  iron  gates  and  guarded  wall, 

The  bolts  which  shattered  Shinar's  tower 
Hang,  smoking,  for  a  fiercer  fall. 

Awake  !  awake  !  my  Fatherland  ! 

It  is  thy  Northern  light  that  shines  ; 
This  stirring  march  of  Freedom's  band 

The  storm-song  of  thy  mountain  pines. 

Wake,  dwellers  where  the  day  expires  ! 

And    hear,    in   winds    that    sweep   your 

lakes 
And  fan  your  prairies'  roaring  fires, 

The  signal-call  that  Freedom  makes  ! 


THE    CRISIS 

Written  on  learning  the  terms  of  the  treaty 
with  Mexico. 

ACROSS  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  des 
ert's  drouth  and  sand, 

The  circles  of  our  empire  touch  the  western 
ocean's  strand  ; 

From  slumberous  Timpanogos,  to  Gila,  wild 
and  free, 

Flowing  down  from  Nuevo-Leon  to  Califor 
nia's  sea  ; 

And  from  the  mountains  of  the  east,  to  San 
ta  Rosa's  shore, 

The  eagles  of  Mexitli  shall  beat  the  air  no 
more. 

O  Vale  of  Rio  Bravo  !  Let  thy  simple  chil 
dren  weep  ; 

Close  watch  about  their  holy  fire  let  maids 
of  Pecos  keep  ; 


THE   CRISIS 


309 


Let  Taos  send  her  cry  across  Sierra  Madre's 

pines, 
And   Santa  Barbara  toll  her  bells  amidst 

her  corn  and  vines  ; 
For  lo  !  the  pale  land-seekers  come,  with 

eager  eyes  of  gain, 
Wide    scattering,  like  the  bison  herds  on 

broad  Salada's  plain. 

Let    Sacramento's    herdsmen    heed   what 

sound  the  winds  bring  down 
Of   footsteps    on   the  crisping  snow,  from 

cold  Nevada's  crown  ! 
Full   hot   and    fast   the  Saxon  rides,  with 

rein  of  travel  slack, 
And,  bending   o'er    his  saddle,  leaves  the 

sunrise  at  his  back  ; 
By  many  a  lonely  river,  and  gorge  of  fir 

and  pine, 
On   many   a   wintry   hill-top,   his   nightly 

camp-fires  shine. 

O  countrymen  and  brothers  !  that  land  of 

lake  and  plain, 
Of  salt  wastes  alternating  with  valleys  fat 

with  grain  ; 
Of   mountains  white  with  winter,  looking 

downward,  cold,  serene, 
On  their  feet  with  spring-vines  tangled  and 

lapped  in  softest  green  ; 
Swift  through  whose  black  volcanic  gates, 

o'er  many  a  sunny  vale, 
Wind-like  the  Arapahoe  sweeps  the  bison's 

dusty  trail  ! 

Great  spaces  yet  untra veiled,  great  lakes 

whose  mystic  shores 
The    Saxon   rifle    never  heard,  nor  dip  of 

Saxon  oars  ; 
Great  herds   that  wander   all   unwatched, 

wild  steeds  that  none  have  tamed, 
Strange  fish  in  unknown  streams,  and  birds 

the  Saxon  never  named  ; 
Deep    mines,    dark    mountain     crucibles, 

where  Nature's  chemic  powers 
Work   out  the  Great  Designer's  will  ;  all 

these  ye  say  are  ours  ! 

Forever   ours  !  for  good  or  ill,  on  us  the 

burden  lies  : 
God's  balance,  watched  by  angels,  is  hung 

across  the  skies. 
Shall    Justice,    Truth,    and   Freedom  turn 

the  poised  and  trembling  scale  ? 


Or   shall   the    Evil    triumph,    and   robber 

Wrong  prevail  ? 
Shall  the  broad  land  o'er  which  our  flag  in 

starry  splendor  waves, 
Forego  through  us  its  freedom,  and  bear 

the  tread  of  slaves  ? 

The  day  is  breaking  in  the  East  of  which 

the  prophets  told, 
And   brightens   up   the   sky   of  Time  the 

Christian  Age  of  Gold  ; 
Old   Might    to   Right    is   yielding,   battle 

blade  to  clerkly  pen, 
Earth's  monarchs  are  her  peoples,  and  her 

serfs  stand  up  as  men  ; 
The    isles    rejoice    together,  in   a  day  are 

nations  born, 
And  the  slave  walks  free  in  Tunis,  and  by 

Stamboul's  Golden  Horn  ! 

Is  this,  O  countrymen  of  mine  !  a  day  for 
us  to  sow 

The  soil  of  new-gained  empire  with  sla 
very's  seeds  of  woe  ? 

To  feed  with  our  fresh  life-blood  the  Old 
World's  cast-off  crime, 

Dropped,  like  some  monstrous  early  birth, 
from  the  tired  lap  of  Time  ? 

To  run  anew  the  evil  race  the  old  lost  na 
tions  ran, 

And  die  like  them  of  unbelief  of  God,  and 
wrong  of  man  ? 

Great  Heaven  !  Is  this  our  mission  ?     End 

in  this  the  prayers  and  tears, 
The  toil,  the  strife,  the  watchings  of  our 

younger,  better  years  ? 
Still  as  the  Old  World  rolls  in  light,  shall 

ours  iu  shadow  turn, 
A  beamless  Chaos,  cursed  of  God,  through 

outer  darkness  borne  ? 
Where  the  far  nations  looked  for  light,  a 

blackness  in  the  air  ? 
Where  for  words  of  hope  they  listened,  the 

long  wail  of  despair  ? 

The  Crisis  presses  on  us  ;  face  to  face  with 

us  it  stands, 
With    solemn     lips    of    question,    like    the 

Sphinx  in  Egypt's  sands  ! 
This  day  we  fashion  Destiny,  our  web  of 

Fate  we  spin  ; 
This  day  for  all  hereafter  choose  we  holi 

ness  or  sin  : 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Even  now  from  starry  Gerizim,  or  Ebal's 

cloudy  crown, 
We  call  the  dews  of  blessing  or  the  bolts 

of  cursing  down  ! 

By  all   for  which    the  martyrs  bore  their 

agony  and  shame  ; 
By  all   the  warning  words   of  truth  with 

which  the  prophets  came  ; 
By  the  Future  which  awaits  us  ;  by  all  the 

hopes  which  cast 
Their   faint   and   trembling  beams   across 

the  blackness  of  the  Past  ; 
And  by  the  blessed  thought  of  Him  who 

for  Earth's  freedom  died, 
O   my    people  !     O  my   brothers  !    let   us 

choose  the  righteous  side. 

So  shall  the  Northern  pioneer  go  joyful  on 
his  way  ; 

To  wed  Penobscot's  waters  to  San  Fran 
cisco's  bay, 

To  make  the  rugged  places  smooth,  and 
sow  the  vales  with  grain  ; 

And  bear,  with  Liberty  and  Law,  the  Bible 
in  his  train  : 

The  mighty  West  shall  bless  the  East,  and 
sea  shall  answer  sea, 

And  mountain  unto  mountain  call,  Praise 
God,  for  we  are  free  ! 


LINES     ON    THE    PORTRAIT    OF 
A   CELEBRATED    PUBLISHER 

The  lines  following  were  addressed  to  a 
magazine  publisher,  who,  alarmed  for  his 
Southern  circulation,  not  only  dropped  the 
name  of  Grace  Greenwood  from  his  list  of  con 
tributors,  but  made  an  offensive  parade  of  his 
action,  with  the  view  of  strengthening  his  posi 
tion  among  slaveholders  and  conservatives. 
By  some  coincidence  his  portrait  was  issued 
about  the  same  time. 

A  MOONY  breadth  of  virgin  face, 

By  thought  unviolated  ; 
A  patient  mouth,  to  take  from  scorn 

The  hook  with  bank-notes  baited  ! 
Its  self-complacent  sleekness  shows 

How  thrift  goes  with  the  fawner  ; 
An  unctuous  unconcern  of  all 

Which  nice  folks  call  dishonor  ! 


A  pleasant  print  to  peddle  out 

In  lands  of  rice  and  cotton  ; 
The  model  of  that  face  in  dough 

Would  make  the  artist's  fortune. 
For  Fame  to  thee  has  come  unsought, 

While  others  vainly  woo  her, 
In  proof  how  mean  a  thing  can  make 

A  great  man  of  its  doer. 

To  whom  shall  men  thyself  compare, 

Since  common  models  fail  'em, 
Save  classic  goose  of  ancient  Rome, 

Or  sacred  ass  of  Balaam  ? 
The  gabble  of  that  wakeful  goose 

Saved  Rome  from  sack  of  Brennus  ; 
The  braying  of  the  prophet's  ass 

Betrayed  the  angel's  menace  ! 

So  when  Guy  Fawkes,  in  petticoats, 

And  azure-tinted  hose  on, 
Was  twisting  from  thy  love-lorn  sheets 

The  slow-match  of  explosion  — 
An  earthquake  blast  that  would  have  tossed 

The  Union  as  a  feather, 
Thy  instinct  saved  a  perilled  land 

And  perilled  purse  together. 

Just  think  of  Carolina's  sage 

Sent  whirling  like  a  Dervis, 
Of  Quattlebum  in  middle  air 

Performing  strange  drill-service  ! 
Doomed  like  Assyria's  lord  of  old, 

Who  fell  before  the  Jewess, 
Or  sad  Abimelech,  to  sigh, 

"  Alas  !  a  woman  slew  us  !  " 

Thou  saw'st  beneath  a  fair  disguise 

The  danger  darkly  lurking, 
And  maiden  bodice  dreaded  more 

Than  warrior's  steel-wrought  jerkin 
How  keen  to  scent  the  hidden  plot ! 

How  prompt  wert  thou  to  balk  it, 
With  patriot  zeal  and  pedler  thrift, 

For  country  and  for  pocket  ! 

Thy  likeness  here  is  doubtless  well, 

But  higher  honor  's  due  it  ; 
On  auction-block  and  negro-jail 

Admiring  eyes  should  view  it. 
Or,  hung  aloft,  it  well  might  grace 

The  nation's  senate-chamber  — 
A  gree  ly  Northern  bottle-fly 

Preserved  in  Slavery's  amber  ! 


DERNE 


DERNE 

The  storming  of  the  city  of  Derne,  in  1805, 
by  General  Eaton,  at  the  head  of  nine  Ameri 
cans,  forty  Greeks,  and  a  motley  array  of  Turks 
and  Arabs,  was  one  of  those  feats  of  hardihood 
and  daring  which  have  in  all  ages  attracted  the 
admiration  of  the  multitude.  The  higher  and 
lolier  heroism  of  Christian  self-denial  and  sac 
rifice,  in  the  humble  walks  of  private  duty,  is 
seldom  so  well  appreciated. 

NIGHT  on  the  city  of  the  Moor  ! 

On  mosque    and    tomb,    and   white-walled 

shore, 

On  sea-waves,  to  whose  ceaseless  knock 
The  narrow  harbor-gates  unlock, 
On  corsair's  galley,  carack  tall, 
And  plundered  Christian  caraval  ! 
The  sounds  of  Moslem  life  are  still  ; 
No  mule-bell  tinkles  down  the  hill  ; 
Stretched  in  the  broad  court  of  the  khan, 
The  dusty  Bornou  caravan 
Lies  heaped  in  slumber,  beast  and  man  ; 
The  Sheik  is  dreaming  in  his  tent, 
His  noisy  Arab  tongue  o'erspent  ; 
The  kiosk's  glimmering  lights  are  gone, 
The  merchant  with  his  wares  withdrawn  ; 
Rough  pillowed  on  some  pirate  breast, 
The  dancing-girl  has  sunk  to  rest  ; 
And,  save  where  measured  footsteps  fall 
Along  the  Bashaw's  guarded  wall, 
Or  where,  like  some  bad  dream,  the  Jew 
Creeps  stealthily  his  quarter  through, 
Or  counts  with  fear  his  golden  heaps, 
The  City  of  the  Corsair  sleeps  ! 

But  where  yon  prison  long  and  low 
Stands  black  against  the  pale  star-glow, 
Ch  ifed  by  the  ceaseless  wash  of  waves, 
There  watch  and  pine  the  Christian  slaves  ; 
Rough-bearded  men,  whose  far-off  wives 
Wear  out  with  grief  their  lonely  lives  ; 
And  youth,  still  flashing  from  his  eyes 
The  clear  blue  of  New  England  skies, 
A  treasured  lock  of  whose  soft  hair 
Now    wakes     some     sorrowing     mother's 

prayer  ; 

Or,  worn  upon  some  maiden  breast, 
Stirs  with  the  loving  heart's  unrest  ! 

A  bitter  cup  each  life  must  drain, 
The  groaning  earth  is  cursed  with  pain, 
And,  like  the  scroll  the  angel  bore 
The  shuddering  Hebrew  seer  before, 


O'erwrit  alike,  without,  within, 
With  all  the  woes  which  follow  sin  ; 
But,  bitterest  of  the  ills  beneath 
Whose  load  man  totters  down  to  death, 
Is  that  which  plucks  the  regal  crown 
Of  Freedom  from  his  forehead  down, 
And  snatches  from  his  powerless  hand 
The  sceptred  sign  of  self-command, 
Effacing  with  the  chain  and  rod 
The  image  and  the  seal  of  God  ; 
Till  from  his  nature,  day  by  day, 
The  manly  virtues  fall  away, 
And  leave  him  naked,  blind  and  mute, 
The  godlike  merging  in  the  brute  ! 

Why  mourn  the  quiet  ones  who  die 
Beneath  affection's  tender  eye, 
Unto  their  household  and  their  kin 
Like  ripened  corn-sheaves  gathered  in  ? 
O  weeper,  from  that  tranquil  sod, 
That  holy  harvest-home  of  God, 
Turn  to  the  quick  and  suffering,  shed 
Thy  tears  upon  the  living  dead  ! 
Thank  God  above  thy  dear  ones'  graves, 
They  sleep  with  Him,  they  are  not  slaves. 

What  dark  mass,  down  the  mountain-sidet 

Swift-pouring,  like  a  stream  divides  ? 

A  long,  loose,  straggling  caravan, 

Camel  and  horse  and  armed  man. 

The  moon's  low  crescent,  glimmering  o'er 

Its  grave  of  waters  to  the  shore, 

Lights  up  that  mountain  cavalcade, 

And  gleams  from  gun  and  spear  and  blade 

Near  and  more  near  !  now  o'er  them  falls 

The  shadow  of  the  city  walls. 

Hark  to  the  sentry's  challenge,  drowned 

In  the  fierce  trumpet's  charging  sound  ! 

The  rush  of  men,  the  musket's  peal, 

The  short,  sharp  clang  of  meeting  steel ! 

Vain,  Moslem,  vain  thy  lifeblood  poured 
So  freely  on  thy  foeman's  sword  ! 
Not  to  the  swift  nor  to  the  strong 
The  battles  of  the  right  belong  ; 
For  he  who  strikes  for  Freedom  wears 
The  armor  of  the  captive's  prayers, 
And  Nature  proffers  to  his  cause 
The  strength  of  her  eternal  laws  ; 
While  he  whose  arm  essays  to  bind 
And  herd  with  common  brutes  his  kind 
Strives  evermore  at  fearful  odds 
With  Nature  and  the  jealous  gods, 
And  dares  the  dread  recoil  which  late 
Or  soon  their  right  shall  vindicate. 


312 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


'T  is  done,  the  horned  crescent  falls  ! 
The  star-flag  flouts  the  broken  walls  ! 
Joy  to  the  captive  husband  !  joy 
To  thy  sick  heart,  O  brown-locked  boy  ! 
In  sullen  wrath  the  conquered  Moor 
Wide  open  flings  your  dungeon-door, 
And  leaves  ye  free  from  cell  and  chain, 
The  owners  of  yourselves  again. 
Dark  as  his  allies  desert-born, 
Soiled  with  the  battle's  stain,  and  worn 
With  the  long  inarches  of  his  band 
Through  hottest  wastes  of  rock  and  sand, 
Scorched  by  the  sun  and  furnace-breath 
Of  the  red  desert's  wind  of  death, 
With  welcome  words  and  grasping  hands, 
The  victor  and  deliverer  stands  ! 

The  tale  is  one  of  distant  skies  ; 

The  dust  of  half  a  century  lies 

Upon  it  ;  yet  its  hero's  name 

Still  lingers  on  the  lips  of  Fame. 

Men  speak  the  praise  of  him  who  gave 

Deliverance  to  the  Moorman's  slave, 

Yet  dare  to  brand  with  shame  and  crime 

The  heroes  of  our  land  and  time,  — 

The  self-forgetful  ones,  who  stake 

Home,  name,  and  life  for  Freedom's  sake. 

God  mend  his  heart  who  cannot  feel 

The  impulse  of  a  holy  zeal, 

And  sees  not,  with  his  sordid  eyes, 

The  beauty  of  self-sacrifice  ! 

Though  in  the  sacred  place  he  stands, 

Uplifting  consecrated  hands, 

Unworthy  are  his  lips  to  tell 

Of  Jesus'  martyr-miracle, 

Or  name  aright  that  dread  embrace 

Of  suffering  for  a  fallen  race  ! 


A    SABBATH    SCENE 

This  poem  finds  its  justification  in  the  readi 
ness  with  which,  even  in  the  North,  clergymen 
urged  the  prompt  execution  of  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Law  as  a  Christian  duty,  and  defended 
the  system  of  slavery  as  a  Bible  institution. 

SCARCE  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell 
Ceased  quivering  in  the  steeple, 

Scarce  had  the  parson  to  his  desk 
Walked  stately  through  his  people, 

When  down  the  summer-shaded  street 

A  wasted  female  figure, 
With  dusky  brow  and  naked  feet, 

Came  rushing  wild  and  eager. 


She  saw  the  white  spire  through  the  trees, 
She  heard  the  sweet  hymn  swelling  : 

O  pitying  Christ  !  a  refuge  give 
That  poor  one  in  Thy  dwelling  ! 

Like  a  scared  fawn  before  the  hounds, 

Right  up  the  aisle  she  glided, 
While  close  behind  her,  whip  in  hand, 

A  lank-haired  hunter  strided. 

She  raised  a  keen  and  bitter  cry, 
To  Heaven  and  Earth  appealing  ; 

Were  manhood's  generous  pulses  dead  ? 
Had  woman's  heart  no  feeling  ? 

A  score  of  stout  hands  rose  between 

The  hunter  and  the  flying  : 
Age  clenched  his  staff,  and  maiden  eyes 

Flashed  tearful,  yet  defying. 

"  Who  dares  profane  this  house  and  day  ?  '' 

Cried  out  the  angry  pastor. 
"  Why,    bless   your   soul,    the    wench  's   a 
slave, 

And  I  'in  her  lord  and  master  ! 

"  I  've  law  and  gospel  on  my  side, 
And  who  shall  dare  refuse  me  ?  " 

Down  came  the  parson,  bowing  low, 
"  My  good  sir,  pray  excuse  me  ! 

"  Of  course  I  know  your  right  divine 
To  own  and  work  and  whip  her  ; 

Quick,  deacon,  throw  that  Polyglott 
Before  the  wench,  and  trip  her  !  " 

Plump  dropped  the  holy  tome,  and  o'er 

Its  sacred  pages  stumbling, 
Bound  hand  and  foot,  a  slave  once  more, 

The  hapless  wretch  lay  trembling. 

I  saw  the  parson  tie  the  knots, 
The  while  his  flock  addressing, 

The  Scriptural  claims  of  slavery 
With  text  on  text  impressing. 

"  Although,"  said  he,  "  on  Sabbath  day 

All  secular  occupations 
Are  deadly  sins,  we  must  fulfil 

Our  moral  obligations  : 

"And  this  commends  itself  as  one 

To  every  conscience  tender  ; 
As  Paid  sent  back  Onesimus, 

My  Christian  friends,  we  send  her  !  " 


IN   THE   EVIL   DAYS 


3*3 


Shriek  rose  on  shriek,  —  the  Sabbath  air 
Her  wild  cries  tore  asunder  ; 

I  listened,  with  hushed  breath,  to  hear 
God  answering  with  his  thunder  ! 

All  still  !  the  very  altar's  cloth 

Had  smothered  down  her  shrieking, 

And,  dumb,  she  turned  from  face  to  face, 
For  human  pity  seeking  ! 

I  saw  her  dragged  along  the  aisle, 
Her  shackles  harshly  clanking  ; 

I  heard  the  parson,  over  all, 
The  Lord  devoutly  thanking  ! 

My  brain  took  fire  :  "  Is  this,"  I  cried, 
"  The  end  of  prayer  and  preaching  ? 

Then  down  with  pulpit,  down  with  priest, 
And  give  us  Nature's  teaching  ! 

"  Foul  shame  and  scorn  be  on  ye  all 

Who  turn  the  good  to  evil, 
And  steal  the  Bible  from  the  Lord, 

To  give  it  to  the  Devil ! 

"  Than  garbled  text  or  parchment  law 

I  own  a  statute  higher  ; 
And  God  is  true,  though  every  book 

And  every  man  's  a  liar  !  " 

Just  then  I  felt  the  deacon's  hand 
In  wrath  my  coat-tail  seize  on  ; 

I  heard  the  priest  cry,  "  Infidel  !  " 
The  lawyer  mutter,  "  Treason  !  " 

I  started  up,  —  where  now  were  church, 
Slave,  master,  priest,  and  people  ? 

I  only  heard  the  supper-bell, 
Instead  of  clanging  steeple. 

But,  on  the  open  window's  sill, 

O'er  which  the  white  blooms  drifted, 

The  pages  of  a  good  old  Book 
The  wind  of  summer  lifted, 

And  flower  and  vine,  like  angel  wings 

Around  the  Holy  Mother, 
Waved  softly  there,  as  if  God's  truth 

And  Mercy  kissed  each  other. 

And  freely  from  the  cherry-bough 
Above  the  casement  swinging, 

V^ith  golden  bosom  to  the  sun, 
The  oriole  was  singing. 


As  bird  and  flower  made  plain  of  old 

The  lesson  of  the  Teacher, 
So  now  I  heard  the  written  Word 

Interpreted  by  Nature  ! 

For  to  my  ear  methought  the  breeze 
Bore  Freedom's  blessed  word  on  ; 

Thus  saith  the  Lord  :  Break  every  yoke, 
Undo  the  heavy  burden  ! 


IN    THE    EVIL   DAYS 

This  and  the  four  following-  poems  have 
special  reference  to  that  darkest  hour  in  the 
aggression  of  slavery  which  preceded  the  dawn 
of  a  better  day,  when  the  conscience  of  the 
people  was  roused  to  action.  [Originally  en 
titled  Stanzas  f 01  the  Times,  1850.] 

THE  evil  days  have  come,  the  poor 

Are  made  a  prey  ; 
Bar  up  the  hospitable  door, 
Put  out  the  fire-lights,  point  no  more 

The  wanderer's  way. 

For  Pity  now  is  crime  ;  the  chain 

Which  binds  our  States 
Is  melted  at  her  hearth  in  twain, 
Is  rusted  by  her  tears'  soft  rain  : 

Close  up  her  gates. 

Our  Union,  like  a  glacier  stirred 

By  voice  below, 

Or  bell  of  kine,  or  wing  of  bird, 
A  beggar's  crust,  a  kindly  word 

May  overthrow  ! 

Poor,  whispering  tremblers  !  yet  we  boast 

Our  blood  and  name  ; 
Bursting  its  century-bolted  frost, 
Each  gray  cairn  on  the  Northman's  coast 

Cries  out  for  shame  ! 

Oh  for  the  open  firmament, 

The  prairie  free, 
The  desert  hillside,  cavern-rent, 
The  Pawnee's  lodge,  the  Arab's  tent, 

The  Bushman's  tree  ! 

Than  web  of  Persian  loom  most  rare, 

Or  soft  divan, 

Better  the  rough  rock,  bleak  and  bare, 
Or  hollow  tree,  which  man  may  share 

With  suffering  man. 


3'4 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


I  hear  a  voice  :  "  Thus  saith  the  Law, 

Let  Love  be  dumb  ; 
Clasping  her  liberal  hands  in  awe, 
Let  sweet-lipped  Charity  withdraw 

From  hearth  and  home." 

I  hear  another  voice  :  "  The  poor 

Are  thine  to  feed  ; 
Turn  not  the  outcast  from  thy  door, 
Nor  give  to  bonds  and  wrong  once  more 

Whom  God  hath  freed.  " 

Dear  Lord  !  between  that  law  and  Thee 

No  choice  remains  ; 
Yet  not  untrue  to  man's  decree, 
Though  spurning  its  rewards,  is  he 

Who  bears  its  pains. 

Not  mine  Sedition's  trumpet-blast 

And  threatening  word  ; 
I  read  the  lesson  of  the  Past, 
That  firm  endurance  wins  at  last 

More  than  the  sword. 

O  clear-eyed  Faith,  and  Patience  thou 

So  calm  and  strong  ! 

Lend  strength  to  weakness,  teach  us  how 
The  sleepless  eyes  of  God  look  through 

This  night  of  wrong  ! 


MOLOCH  IN  STATE  STREET 

In  a  foot-note  of  the  Report  of  the  Senate  of 
Massachusetts  on  the  case  of  the  arrest  and 
return  to  bondage  of  the  fugitive  slave  Thomas 
Sims  it  is  stated  that  — 

"  It  would  have  been  impossible  for  the 
U.  S.  marshal  thus  successfully  to  have  resisted 
the  law  of  the  State,  without  the  assistance 
of  the  municipal  authorities  of  Boston,  and 
the  countenance  and  support  of  a  numerous, 
wealthy,  and  powerful  body  of  citizens.  It  was 
in  evidence  that  1500  of  the  most  wealthy  and 
respectable  citizens  —  merchants,  bankers,  and 
others  —  volunteered  their  services  to  aid  the 
marshal  on  this  occasion.  .  .  .  No  watch  was 
kept  upon  the  doings  of  the  marshal,  and  while 
the  State  officers  slept,  after  the  moon  had 
gone  down,  in  the  darkest  hour  before  dav- 
break,  the  accused  was  taken  out  of  our  juris 
diction  by  the  armed  police  of  the  city  of 
Boston."' 
THE  moon  has  set  :  while  yet  the  dawn 

Breaks  cold  and  gray, 
Between  the  midnight  and  the  morn 

Bear  off  your  prey  ! 


On,  swift  and  still  !  the  conscious  street 

Is  panged  and  stirred  ; 
Tread  light  !  that  fall  of  serried  feet 

The  dead  have  heard  ! 

The  first  drawn  blood  of  Freedom's  veins 

Gushed  where  ye  tread  ; 
Lo  !  through  the  dusk  the  martyr-stains 

Blush  darkly  red  ! 

Beneath  the  slowly-waning  stars 

And  whitening  day, 
What  stern  and  awful  presence  bars 

That  sacred  way  ? 

What  faces  frown  upon  ye,  dark 

With  shame  and  pain  ? 
Come  these  from  Plymouth's  Pilgrim  bark  ? 

Is  that  young  Vane  ? 

Who,  dimly  beckoning,  speed  ye  on 

With  mocking  cheer  ? 
Lo  !  spectral  Andros,  Hntchinson, 

And  Gage  are  here  ! 

For  ready  mart  or  favoring  blast 

Through  Moloch's  fire, 
Flesh  of  his  flesh,  unsparing,  passed 

The  Tyrian  sire. 

Ye  make  that  ancient  sacrifice 

Of  Man  to  Gain, 
Your  traffic  thrives,  where  Freedom  dies, 

Beneath  the  chain. 

Ye  sow  to-day  ;  your  harvest,  scorn 

And  hate,  is  near  ; 
How  think  ye  freemen,  mountain-born, 

The  tale  will  hear  ? 

Thank  God  !  our  mother  State  can  yet 

Her  fame  retrieve  ; 
To  you  and  to  your  children  let 

The  scandal  cleave. 

Chain  Hall  and  Pulpit,  Court  and  Press, 

Make  gods  of  gold  ; 
Let  honor,  truth,  and  manliness 

Like  wares  be  sold. 

Your    hoards    are    great,    your    walls    are 
strong, 

But  God  is  just  ; 
The  gilded  chambers  built  by  wrong 

Invite  the  rust. 


THE   RENDITION 


What !  know  ye  not  the  gains  of  Crime 

Are  dust  and  dross  ; 
[ts  ventures  on  the  waves  of  time 

Foredoomed  to  loss  ! 

A.nd  still  the  Pilgrim  State  remains 

What  she  hath  been  ; 
tier  inland  hills,  her  seaward  plains, 

Still  nurture  men  ! 

N^or  wholly  lost  the  fallen  mart  ; 

Her  olden  blood 
Through  many  a  free  and  generous  heart 

Still  pours  its  flood. 

That  brave  old  blood,  quick-flowing  yet, 

Shall  know  no  check, 
Till  a  free  people's  foot  is  set 

On  Slavery's  neck. 

Even  now,  the  peal  of  bell  and  gun, 

And  hills  aflame, 
Tell  of  the  first  great  triumph  won 

In  Freedom's  name. 

The  long  night  dies  :  the  welcome  gray 

Of  dawn  we  see  ; 
Speed  up  the  heavens  thy  perfect  day, 

God  of  the  free  ! 


OFFICIAL   PIETY 

Suggested  by  reading  a  state  paper,  wherein 
the  higher  law  is  invoked  to  sustain  the  lower 
one.  [Originally  entitled  Lines.] 

A   PIOUS    magistrate  !     sound    his    praise 

throughout 

The  wondering  churches.    Who  shall  hence 
forth  doubt 
That  the  long-wished  millennium  draw- 

eth  nigh  ? 

Sin  in  high  places  has  become  devout, 
Tithes    mint,    goes    painful  -  faced,  and 

prays  its  lie 
Straight  up  to  Heaven,  and  calls  it  piety  ! 

The  pirate,  watching  from  his  bloody  deck 
The  weltering  galleon,  heavy  with   the 

gold 
Of  Acapulco,  holding  death  in  check 

While   prayers  are  said,  brows  crossed, 

and  beads  are  told  ; 

The   robber,  kneeling  where    the  wayside 
cross 


On  dark  Abruzzo  tells  of  life's  dread  loss 
From  his  own  carbine,  glancing  still  abroad 
For  some  new  victim,  offering   thanks   to 

God! 

Rome,  listening  at  her  altars  to  the  cry 
Of  midnight  Murder,  while  her  hounds  of 

hell 
Scour  France,  from   baptized  cannon  and 

holy  bell 
And  thousand- throated  priesthood,  loud 

and  high, 

Pealing  Te  Deums  to  the  shuddering  sky, 
"Thanks  to  the  Lord,  who  giveth  vic 
tory  ! " 
What  prove  these,  but  that  crime  was  ne'er 

so  black 

As  ghostly  cheer  and  pious  thanks  to  lack  ? 
Satan  is  modest.      At  Heaven's  door  he 

lays 

His  evil  offspring,  and,  in  Scriptural  phrase 
And  saintly  posture,  gives  to  God  the  praise 
And  honor  of  the  monstrous  progeny. 
What  marvel,  then,   in   our  own  time  to 

see 

His  old  devices,  smoothly  acted  o'er,  — 
Official  piety,  locking  fast  the  door 
Of   Hope    against    three    million    souls  of 

men,  — 

Brothers,     God's     children,    Christ's     re 
deemed, —  and  then, 

With  uprolled  eyeballs  and  on  bended  knee, 
Whining  a  prayer  for  help  to  hide  the  key  ! 


THE    RENDITION 

On  the  2d  of  June,  1854,  Anthony  Burns,  a 
fugitive  slave  from  Virginia,  after  being  under 
arrest  for  ten  days  in  the  Boston  Court  House, 
was  remanded  to  slavery  under  the  Fugitive 
Slave  Act,  and  taken  down  State  Street  to  a 
steamer  chartered  by  the  United  States  Gov 
ernment,  under  guard  of  United  States  troops 
and  artillery,  Massachusetts  militia  and  Boston 
police.  Public  excitement  ran  high,  a  futile 
attempt  to  rescue  Burns  having  been  made 
during  his  confinement,  and  the  streets  were 
crowded  with  tens  of  thousands  of  people,  of 
whom  many  came  from  other  towns  and  cities 
of  the  State  to  witness  the  humiliating  speo« 
tacle. 

I  HEARD  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call, 
I  saw  an  earnest  look  beseech, 
And  rather  by  that  look  than  speech 

My  neighbor  told  me  all. 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


And,  as  I  thought  of  Liberty 

Marched  handcuffed  down  that  sworded 
street, 

The  solid  earth  beneath  my  feet 
Reeled  fluid  as  the  sea. 

I  felt  a  sense  of  bitter  loss,  — 

Shame,  tearless  grief,  and  stifling  wrath, 
And  loathing  fear,  as  if  my  path 

A  serpent  stretched  across. 

All  love  of  home,  all  pride  of  place, 
All  generous  confidence  and  trust, 
Sank  smothering  in  that  deep  disgust 

And  anguish  of  disgrace. 

Down  on  my  native  hills  of  June, 
And  home's  green  quiet,  hiding  all, 
Fell  sudden  darkness  like  the  fall 

Of  midnight  upon  noon  ! 

And  Law,  an  unloosed  maniac,  strong, 
Blood  -  drunken,  through  the  blackness 

trod, 
Hoarse-shouting  in  the  ear  of  God 

The  blasphemy  of  wrong. 

"  0  Mother,  from  thy  memories  proud, 
Thy  old  renown,  dear  Commonwealth, 
Lend  this  dead  air  a  breeze  of  health, 

And  smite  with  stars  this  cloud. 

"  Mother  of  Freedom,  wise  and  brave, 
Rise  awful  in  thy  strength,"  I  said  ; 
Ah  me  !  I  spake  but  to  the  dead  ; 

1  stood  upon  her  grave  ! 


ARISEN   AT   LAST 

On  the  passage  of  the  bill  to  protect  the 
rights  and  liberties  of  the  people  of  the  State 
against  the  Fugitive  Slave  Act.  [Originally 
entitled  simply  Lines.] 

I  SAID  I  stood  upon  thy  grave, 

My  Mother  State,  when  last  the  moon 
Of  blossoms  clomb  the  skies  of  June. 

And,  scattering  ashes  on  my  head, 
I  wore,  undreaming  of  relief, 
The  sackcloth  of  thy  shame  and  grief. 

Again  that  moon  of  blossoms  shines 
On  leaf  and  flower  and  folded  wing, 
And  thou  hast  risen  with  the  spring  ! 


Once  more  thy  strong  maternal  arms 
Are  round  about  thy  children  flung,  — 
A  lioness  that  guards  her  young  ! 

No  threat  is  on  thy  closed  lips, 
But  in  thine  eye  a  power  to  smite 
The  mad  wolf  backward  from  its  light- 

Southward  the  baffled  robber's  track 
Henceforth  runs  only  ;  hereaway, 
The  fell  lycanthrope  finds  no  prey. 

Henceforth,  within  thy  sacred  gates, 

His  first  low  howl  shall  downward  draw 
The  thunder  of  thy  righteous  law. 

Not  mindless  of  thy  trade  and  gain, 
But,  acting  on  the  wiser  plan, 
Thou  'rt  grown  conservative  of  man. 

So  shalt  thou  clothe  with  life  the  hope, 
Dream-painted  on  the  sightless  eyes 
Of  him  who  sang  of  Paradise,  — 

The  vision  of  a  Christian  man, 
In  virtue,  as  in  stature  great 
Embodied  in  a  Christian  State. 

And  thou,  amidst  thy  sisterhood 
Forbearing  long,  yet  standing  fast, 
Shalt  win  their  grateful  thanks  at  last  ; 

When    North    and    South    shall   strive    no 

more, 

And  all  their  feuds  and  rears  be  lost 
In  Freedom's  hoi}  Pentecost. 


THE    HASCHISH 

OF  all  that  Orient  lands  can  vaunt 
Of  marvels  with  our  own  competing, 

The  strangest  is  the  Haschish  plant, 
And  what  will  follow  on  its  eating. 

What  pictures  to  the  taster  rise, 
Of  Dervish  or  of  Almeh  dances  ! 

Of  Kblis,  or  of  Paradise, 

Set  all  aglow  with  Houri  glances ! 

The  poppy  visions  of  Cathay, 

The  heavy  beer-trance  of  the  Suabian 
The  wizard  lights  and  demon  play 

Of  nights  Walpurgis  and  Arabian  ! 


FOR   RIGHTEOUSNESS'   SAKE 


The  Mollah  and  the  Christian  dog 
Change  place  in  mad  metempsychosis  ; 

The  Muezzin  climbs  the  synagogue, 
The  Rabbi  shakes  his  beard  at  Moses  ! 

The  Arab  by  his  desert  well 

Sits  choosing  from  some  Caliph's  daugh 
ters, 
And  hears  his  single  camel's  bell 

Sound  welcome  to  his  regal  quarters. 

The  Koran's  reader  makes  complaint 
Of  Shitan  dancing  on  and  off  it  ; 

The  robber  offers  alms,  the  saint 

Drinks  Tokay  and  blasphemes  the  Pro 
phet. 

Such  scenes  that  Eastern  plant  awakes  ; 

But  we  have  one  ordained  to  beat  it, 
The  Haschish  of  the  West,  which  makes 

Or  fools  or  knaves  of  all  who  eat  it. 

The  preacher  eats,  and  straight  appears 
His  Bible  in  a  new  translation  ; 

Its  angels  negro  overseers, 

And  Heaven  itself  a  snug  plantation  ! 

The  man  of  peace,  about  whose  dreams 
The  sweet  millennial  angels  cluster, 

Tastes  the  mad  weed,  and  plots  and  schemes, 
A  raving  Cuban  filibuster  ! 

The  noisiest  Democrat,  with  ease, 
It  turns  to  Slavery's  parish  beadle  ; 

The  shrewdest  statesman  eats  and  sees 
Due  southward  point  the  polar  needle 

The  Judge  partakes,  and  sits  erelong 
Upon  his  bench  a  railing  blackguard  ; 

Decides  off-hand  that  right  is  wrong, 

And  reads  the  ten  commandments  back 
ward. 

0  potent  plant  !  so  rare  a  taste 

Has  never  Turk  or  Gentoo  gotten  ; 

The  hempen  Haschish  of  the  East 
Is  powerless  to  our  Western  Cotton  ! 

THE    KANSAS    EMIGRANTS 

This  poem  and  the  three  following-  were 
called  out  by  the  popular  movement  of  Free 
State  men  to  occupy  the  territory  of  Kansas, 
and  by  the  use  of  the  great  democratic  weapon 
^~  ar  overpowering1  maiority  —  to  settle  the 


conflict  on  that  ground  between  Freedom  and 
Slavery.  The  opponents  of  the  movement 
used  another  kind  of  weapon.  [This  song  was 
sent  to  the  first  company  of  emigrants  by  the 
poet.  ''It  is  one  of  those  prophecies,'  says 
E.  E.  Hale,  "  for  which  poets  are  born,  uttered 
before  the  event  and  not  after.  In  absolute 
hard  fact,  the  song  was  sung-  by  parties  of  em 
igrants,  sung  when  they  started,  sung  as  they 
rode,  and  sung  in  the  new  home."] 

WE  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old 

The  pilgrims  crossed  the  sea, 
To  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 

The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 

We  go  to  rear  a  wall  of  men 

On  Freedom's  southern  line, 
And  plant  beside  the  cotton-tree 

The  rugged  Northern  pine  ! 

We  're  flowing  from  our  native  hills 

As  our  free  rivers  flow  : 
The  blessing  of  our  Mother-land 

Is  on  us  as  we  go. 

We  go  to  plant  her  common  schools 

On  distant  prairie  swells, 
And  give  the  Sabbaths  of  the  wild 

The  music  of  her  bells. 

Upbearing,  like  the  Ark  of  old, 

The  Bible  in  our  van, 
We  go  to  test  the  truth  of  God 

Against  the  fraud  of  man. 

No  pause,  nor  rest,  save  where  the  streams 

That  feed  the  Kansas  run, 
Save  where  our  Pilgrim  gonfalon 

Shall  flout  the  setting  sun  ! 

We  '11  tread  the  prairie  as  of  old 

Our  fathers  sailed  the  sea, 
And  make  the  West,  as  they  the  East, 

The  homestead  of  the  free  ! 


FOR    RIGHTEOUSNESS'   SAKE 

Inscribed  to  friends  Tinder  arrest  for  treason 
against  the  slave  power.  [Originally  entitled 
Lines.] 

THE  age  is  dull  and  mean.     Men  creep, 
Not  walk  ;  with  blood  too  pale  and  tame 
To  pay  the  debt  they  owe  to  shame  ; 

Buy  cneap,  sell  dear  ;  eat,  drink,  and  sleej 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Down-pillowed,  deaf  to  moaning  want  ; 
Fay  tithes  for  soul-insurance  ;  keep 
Six  days  to  Mammon,  one  to  Cant 

In  such  a  time,  give  thanks  to  GoJ, 
That  somewhat  of  the  holy  rage 
With  which  the  prophets  in  their  age 

On  all  its  decent  seemings  trod, 
Has  set  your  feet  upon  the  lie, 

That  man  and  ox  and  soul  and  clod 
Are  market  stock  to  sell  and  buy  ! 

The  hot  words  from  your  lips,  my  own, 

To  caution  trained,  might  not  repeat  ; 

But  if  some  tares  among  the  wheat 
Of  generous  thought  and  deed  were  sown, 

No  common  wrong  provoked  your  zeal  ; 
The  silken  gauntlet  that  is  thrown 

In  such  a  quarrel  rings  like  steel. 

The  brave  old  strife  the  fathers  saw 
For  Freedom  calls  for  men  again 
Like  those  who  battled  not  in  vain 

For  England's  Charter,  Alfred's  law  ; 
And  right  of  speech  and  trial  just 

Wage  in  your  name  their  ancient  war 
With  venal  courts  and  perjured  trust. 

God's  ways  seem  dark,  but,  soon  or  late, 

They  touch  the  shining  hills  of  day  ; 

The  evil  cannot  brook  delay, 
The  good  can  well  afford  to  wait. 

Give  ermined  knaves  their  hour  of  crime  ; 
Ye  have  the  future  grand  and  great, 

The  safe  appeal  of  Truth  to  Time  ! 


LETTER 

FROM  A  MISSIONARY  OF  THE  METHO 
DIST  EPISCOPAL  CHURCH  SOUTH,  IN 
KANSAS,  TO  A  DISTINGUISHED  POLI 
TICIAN 

DOUGLAS  MISSION,  August,  1854. 

LAST   week  —  the    Lord  be  praised  for 

all  His  mercies 

To  His  unworthy  servant  !  —  I  arrived 
Safe  at  the  Mission,  via  Westport  where 
I  tarried  over  night,  to  aid  in  forming 
A  Vigilance  Committee,  to  send  back, 
tn    shirts    of    tar,    and    feather-doublets 

quilted 
With  forty  stripes   save   oiie,  all  Yankee 

comers, 


Uncircumcised  and  Gentile,  aliens  from 
The  Commonwealth  of  Israel,  who  despise 
The  prize  of  the  high  calling  of  the  saints, 
Who  plant  amidst  this  heathen  wilderness 
Pure  gospel  institutions,  sanctified 
By  patriarchal  use.     The  meeting  opened 
With   prayer,  as  was   most  fitting.     Half 

an  hour, 
Or  thereaway,  I  groaned,  and  strove,  and 

wrestled, 

As  Jacob  did  at  Fennel,  till  the  power 
Fell     on     the     people,     and     they     cried 

"  Amen  !  " 
"  Glory     to     God  ! "   and     stamped     and 

clapped  their  hands  ; 
And  the  rough  river  boatmen  wiped  their 

eyes  ; 
"  Go  it,  old  hoss  !  "  they  cried,  and  cursed 

the  niggers  — 

Fulfilling  thus  the  word  of  prophecy, 
"  Cursed  be  Canaan."     After   prayer,  the 

meeting 
Chose     a    committee  —  good    and    pious 

men  — 

A  Presbyterian  Elder,  Baptist  deacon, 
A  local  preacher,  three  or  four  class-leaders, 
Anxious    inquirers,    and    renewed    back 
sliders, 

A  score  in  all  —  to  watch  the  river  ferry, 
(As   they    of   old  did  watch   the  fords  of 

Jordan,) 

And  cut  off  all  whose  Yankee  tongues  re 
fuse 

The  Shibboleth  of  the  Nebraska  bill. 
And  then,  in  answer  to  repeated  calls, 
I  gave  a  brief  account  of  what  I  saw 
In  Washington  ;  and  truly  many  hearts 
Rejoiced  to  know  the  President,  and  you 
And  all  the  Cabinet  regularly  hear 
The  gospel  message  of  a  Sunday  morning, 
Drinking  with  thirsty  souls  of  the  sincere 
Milk   of   the    Word.     Glory !  Amen,   and 
Selah  ! 

Here,  at   the   Mission,  all   things   have 

gone  well  : 
The  brother  who,  throughout  my  absence, 

acted 

As  overseer,  assures  me  that  the  crops 
Never  were  better.     I  have  lost  one  negro, 
A  first-rate  hand,  but  obstinate  and  sullen. 
He   ran  away  some  time  last  spring,  and 

hid 
In   the   river    timber.     There   my   India! 

converts 


BURIAL   OF   BARBER 


3*9 


Found  him,  and  treed  and  shot  him.     For 

the  rest, 

The  heathens  round  about  begin  to  feel 
The  influence  of  our  pious  ministrations 
And  works  of  love  ;  and  some  of  them  al 
ready 
Have  purchased  negroes,  and  are  settling 

down 
As  sober  Christians  !     Bless  the  Lord  for 

this  ! 

I  know  it  will  rejoice  you.     You,  I  hear, 
Are  on  the  eve  of  visiting  Chicago, 
To  fight  with  the  wild  beasts  of  Ephesus, 
Long  John,  and  Dutch  Free-Soilers.     May 

your  arm 
Be   clothed    with    strength,    and    on    your 

tongue  be  found 

The  sweet  oil  of  persuasion.     So  desires 
Your  brother  and  co-laborer.     Amen  1 

P.  S.     All  's  lost.     Even  while  I  write 

these  lines, 

The  Yankee  abolitionists  are  coming 
Upon  us  like  a  flood  —  grim,  stalwart  men, 
Each  face  set  like  a  flint  of  Plymouth  Rock 
Against  our  institutions  —  staking  out 
Their  farm  lots  on  the  wooded  Wakarusa, 
Or    squatting    by   the    mellow  -  bottomed 

Kansas  ; 

The  pioneers  of  mightier  multitudes, 
The   small   rain -patter,  ere    the    thunder 

shower 
Drowns  the  dry  prairies.     Hope  from  man 

is  not. 

Oh,  for  a  quiet  berth  at  Washington, 
Snug  naval  chaplaincy,  or  clerkship,  where 
These  rumors  of  free  labor  and  free  soil 
Might  never  meet  me  more.     Better  to  be 
Door-keeper  in  the  White  House,  than  to 

dwell 

Amidst  these  Yankee  tents,  that,  whiten 
ing,  show 

On  the  green  prairie  like  a  fleet  becalmed. 
Methinks  I  hear  a  voice  come  up  the  river 
From  those  far  bayous  where  the  alligators 
Mount  guard  around  the  camping  filibus 
ters  : 
"  Shake  off  the  dust  of  Kansas.  Turn  to 

Cuba  — 

(That  golden  orange  just  about  to  fall, 
O'er-ripe,  into  the  Democratic  lap  ;) 
Keep  pace  with  Providence,  or,  as  we  say, 
Manifest  destiny.     Go  forth  and  follow 
The  message  of  our  gospel,  thither  borne 
Upon  the  point  of  Quitinan's  bowie  knife, 


And  the  persuasive  lips  of  Colt's  revolvers. 

There  may'st  thou,  underneath  thy  vine 
and  fig-tree, 

Watch  thy  increase  of  sugar  cane  and  ne 
groes, 

Calm  as  a  patriarch  in  his  eastern  tent !  " 

Amen  :  So  mote  it  be.  So  prays  your 
friend. 


BURIAL   OF   BARBER 

Thomas  Barber  was  shot  December  6,  1855^ 
near  Lawrence,  Kansas. 

BEAR  him,  comrades,  to  his  grave  ; 
Never  over  one  more  brave 

Shall  the  prairie  grasses  weep, 
In  the  ages  yet  to  come, 
When  the  millions  in  our  room, 

What  we  sow  in  tears,  shall  reap. 

Bear  him  up  the  icy  hill, 
With  the  Kansas,  frozen  still 

As  his  noble  heart,  below, 
And  the  land  he  came  to  till 
With  a  freeman's  thews  and  will, 

And  his  poor  hut  roofed  with  snow ! 

One  more  look  of  that  dead  face, 
Of  his  murder's  ghastly  trace  ! 

One  more  kiss,  O  widowed  one ! 
Lay  your  left  hands  on  his  brow, 
Lift  your  right  hands  up,  and  vow 

That  his  work  shall  yet  be  done. 

Patience,  friends  !     The  eye  of  God 
Every  path  by  Murder  trod 

Watches,  lidless,  day  and  night ; 
And  the  dead  man  in  his  shroud, 
And  his  widow  weeping  loud, 

And  our  hearts,  are  in  His  sight. 

Every  deadly  threat  that  swells 
With  the  roar  of  gambling  hells, 

Every  brutal  jest  and  jeer, 
Every  wicked  thought  and  plan 
Of  the  cruel  heart  of  man, 

Though  but  whispered,  He  can  hear ! 

We  in  suffering,  they  in  crime, 
Wait  the  just  award  of  time, 

Wait  the  vengeance  that  is  due  ; 
Not  in  vain  a  heart  shall  break, 
Not  a  tear  for  Freedom's  sake 

Fall  unheeded  :  God  is  true. 


320 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


While  the  flag  with  stars  bedecked 
Threatens  where  it  should  protect, 

And  the  Law  shakes  hands  with  Crime, 
What  is  left  us  but  to  wait, 
Match  our  patience  to  our  fate, 

And  abide  the  better  time  ? 

Patience,  friends  !     The  human  heart 
Everywhere  shall  take  our  part, 

E  very  where  for  us  shall  pray  ; 
On  our  side  are  nature's  laws, 
And  God's  life  is  in  the  cause 

That  we  suffer  for  to-day. 

Well  to  suffer  is  divine  ; 

Pass  the  watchword  down  the  line, 

Pass  the  countersign  :  "  Endure." 
Not  to  him  who  rashly  dares, 
But  to  him  who  nobly  bears, 

Is  the  victor's  garland  sure. 

Frozen  earth  to  frozen  breast, 
Lay  our  slain  one  down  to  rest  ; 

Lay  him  down  in  hope  and  faith, 
And  above  the  broken  sod, 
Once  again,  to  Freedom's  God, 

Pledge  ourselves  for  life  or  death, 

That  the  State  whose  walls  we  lay, 
In  our  blood  and  tears,  to-day, 

Shall  be  free  from  bonds  of  shame, 
And  our  goodly  land  untrod 
By  the  feet  of  Slavery,  shod 

With  cursing  as  with  flame  ! 

Plant  the  Buckeye  on  his  grave, 
For  the  hunter  of  the  slave 

In  its  shadow  cannot  rest  ; 
And  let  martyr  mound  and  tree 
Be  our  pledge  and  guaranty 

Of  the  freedom  of  the  West  ! 


TO    PENNSYLVANIA 

O  STATE  prayer-founded  '  never  hung 
Such  choice  upon  a  people's  tongue, 

Such  power  to  bless  or  ban, 
As  that  which  makes  thy  whisper  Fate, 
For  which  on  thee  the  centuiies  wait, 

And  destinies  of  man  ! 

Across  thy  Alleghanian  chain, 
With  groanings  from  a  land  in  pain, 
The  west-wind  finds  its  way  : 


Wild-wailing  from  Missouri's  flood 
The  crying  of  thy  children's  blood 
Is  in  thy  ears  to-day  ! 

And  unto  thee  in  Freedom's  hour 
Of  sorest  need  God  gives  the  power 

To  ruin  or  to  save  ; 
To  wound  or  heal,  to  blight  or  bless 
With  fertile  field  or  wilderness, 

A  free  home  or  a  grave  ! 

Then  let  thy  virtue  match  the  crime, 
Rise  to  a  level  with  the  time  ; 

And,  if  a  son  of  thine 
Betray  or  tempt  thee,  Brutus-like 
For  Fatherland  and  Freedom  strike 

As  Justice  gives  the  sign. 

Wake,  sleeper,  from  thy  dream  of  ease, 
The  great  occasion's  forelock  seize  ; 

And  let  the  north-wind  strong, 
And  golden  leaves  of  autumn,  be 
Thy  coronal  of  Victory 

And  thy  triumphal  song. 


LE    MARAIS    DU    CYGNE 

The  massacre  of  unarmed  and  unoffending 
men,  in  Southern  Kansas,  in  May,  1858,  took 
place  near  the  Marais  du  Cygne  of  the  French 
voyageurs. 

A  BLUSH  as  of  roses 

Where  rose  never  grew  ! 
Great  drops  on  the  bunch-grass, 

But  not  of  the  dew  ! 
A  taint  in  the  sweet  air 

For  wild  bees  to  shun  I 
A  stain  that  shall  never 

Bleach  out  in  the  sun  ! 

Back,  steed  of  the  prairies  I 

Sweet  song-bird,  fly  back  I 
Wheel  hither,  bald  vulture  ! 

Gray  wolf,  call  thy  pack  I 
The  foul  human  vultures 

Have  feasted  and  fled  ; 
The  wolves  of  the  Border 

Have  crept  from  the  dead. 

From  the  hearths  of  their  cabins. 

The  fields  of  their  corn, 
Unwarned  and  unweaponed, 

The  victims  were  torn,  — 


THE   PASS    OF   THE   SIERRA 


By  the  whirlwind  of  murder 
Swooped  up  and  swept  011 

To  the  low,  reedy  fen-lands, 
The  Marsh  of  the  Swan. 

With  a  vain  plea  for  mercy 

No  stout  knee  was  crooked  ; 
In  the  mouths  of  the  rifles 

Right  manly  they  looked. 
How  paled  the  May  sunshine, 

O  Marais  clu  Cygne  ! 
On  death  for  the  strong  life, 

On  red  grass  for  green  ! 

In  the  homes  of  their  rearing, 

Yet  warm  with  their  lives, 
Ye  wait  the  dead  only, 

Poor  children  and  wives  ! 
Put  out  the  red  forge-fire, 

The  smith  shall  not  come  ; 
Unyoke  the  brown  oxen, 

The  ploughman  lies  dumb. 

Wind  slow  from  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

O  dreary  death-train, 
With  pressed  lips  as  bloodless 

As  lips  of  the  slain  ! 
Kiss  down  the  young  eyelids, 

Smooth  down  the  gray  hairs  ; 
Let  tears  quench  the  curses 

That  burn  through  your  prayers. 

Strong  man  of  the  prairies, 

Mourn  bitter  and  wild  ! 
Wail,  desolate  woman  ! 

Weep,  fatherless  child  ! 
But  the  grain  of  God  springs  up 

From  ashes  beneath, 
And  the  crown  of  his  harvest 

Is  life  out  of  death. 

Not  in  vain  on  the  dial 

The  shade  moves  along, 
To  point  the  great  contrasts 

Of  right  and  of  wrong  : 
Free  homes  and  free  altars, 

Free  prairie  and  flood,  — 
The  reeds  of  the  Swan's  Marsh, 

Whose  bloom  is  of  blood  ! 

On  the  lintels  of  Kansas 
That  blood  shall  not  dry  ; 

Henceforth  the  Bad  Angel 
Shall  harmless  go  by  ; 


Henceforth  to  the  sunset, 
Unchecked  on  her  way, 

Shall  Liberty  follow 
The  march  of  the  day. 


THE    PASS    OF    THE    SIERRA 

ALL  night  above  their  rocky  bed 
They  saw  the  stars  march  slow  ; 

The  wild  Sierra  overhead, 
The  desert's  death  below. 

The  Indian  from  his  lodge  of  bark, 
The  gray  bear  from  his  den, 

Beyond  their  camp-fire's  wall  of  dark, 
Glared  on  the  mountain  men. 

Still  upward  turned,  with  anxious  strain, 

Their  leader's  sleepless  eye, 
Where  splinters  of  the  mountain  chain 

Stood  black  against  the  sky. 

The  night  waned  slow  :  at  last,  a  glow, 

A  gleam  of  sudden  fire, 
Shot  up  behind  the  walls  of  snow, 

And  tipped  each  icy  spire. 

"  Up,  men  !  "  he  cried,  "  yon  rocky  cone 
To-day,  please  God,  we  '11  pass, 

And  look  from  Winter's  frozen  throne 
On  Summer's  flowers  and  grass  !  " 

They  set  their  faces  to  the  blast, 

They  trod  the  eternal  snow, 
And  faint,  worn,  bleeding,  hailed  at  last 

The  promised  land  below. 

Behind,  they  saw  the  snow-cloud  tossed 

By  many  an  icy  horn  ; 
Before,  warm  valleys,  wood-embossed, 

And  green  with  vines  and  corn. 

They  left  the  Winter  at  their  backs 

To  flap  his  baffled  wing, 
And  downward,  with  the  cataracts, 

Leaped  to  the  lap  of  Spring. 

Strong  leader  of  that  mountain  band, 

Another  task  remains, 
To  break  from  Slavery's  desert  land 

A  path  to  Freedom's  plains. 

The  winds  are  wild,  the  way  is  drear, 
Yet.  flashing  through  the  night, 


322 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Lo  !  icy  ridge  and  rocky  spear 
Blaze  out  in  moming  light ! 

Rise  up,  Fremont,  and  go  before  ; 

The  Hour  must  have  its  Man ; 
Put  on  the  hunting-shirt  once  more, 

And  lead  in  Freedom's  van  ! 


A    SONG    FOR   THE   TIME 

Written  in  the  summer  of  1856,  during  the 
political  campaign  of  the  Free  Soil  party  under 
the  candidacy  of  John  C.  Fremont. 

UP,  laggards  of  Freedom  !  —  our  free  flag 

is  cast 
To  the  blaze  of  the  sun  and  the  wings  of 

the  blast  ; 
Will  ye  turn  from  a  struggle  so  bravely 

begun, 
From  a  foe  that  is  breaking,  a  field  that 's 

half  won  ? 

Whoso  loves  not  his  kind,  and  who  fears 

not  the  Lord, 
Let  him  join  that  foe's  service,  accursed  and 

abhorred  ! 
Let  him  do  his  base  will,  as  the  slave  only 

can,  — 
Let  him  put  on  the  bloodhound,  and  put  off 

the  Man  ! 

Let  him  go  where  the  cold  blood  that  creeps 

in  his  veins 
Shall  stiffen  the  slave-whip,  and  rust  on  his 

chains  ; 
Where  the  black  slave  shall  laugh  in  his 

bonds,  to  behold 
The  White  Slave  beside  him,  self-fettered 

and  sold  ! 

But  ye,  who  still  boast  of  hearts  beating 
and  warm, 

Rise,  from  lake  shore  and  ocean's,  like 
waves  in  a  storm, 

Come,  throng  round  our  banner  in  Liberty's 
name, 

Like  winds  from  your  mountains,  like  prai 
ries  aflame  ! 

Our  foe,  hidden  long  in  his  ambush  of  night, 
NTow,  forced  from  his  covert,  stands  black 
in  the  lijrht. 


Oh,  the  cruel  to  Man,  and  the  hateful  to 

God, 
Smite  him  down  to  the  earth,  that  is  cursed 

wlxere  he  trod  ! 

For  deeper  than  thunder  of  summer's  loud 

shower, 
On  the  dome  of  the  sky  God  is  striking  the 

hour  ! 
Shall  we  falter  before  what  we  Ve  prayed 

for  so  long, 
When  the  Wrong  is  so  weak,  and  the  Right 

is  so  strong  ? 

Come  forth  all  together  !  come  old  and  come 
young, 

Freedom's  vote  in  each  hand,  and  her  song 
on  each  tongue  ; 

Truth  naked  is  stronger  than  Falsehood  in 
mail  ; 

The  WTrong  cannot  prosper,  the  Right  can 
not  fail  1 

Like  leaves  of  the  summer  once  numbered 

the  foe, 
But  the  hoar-frost  is  falling,  the  northern 

winds  blow  ; 
Like  leaves  of  November  erelong  shall  they 

fall, 
For  earth  wearies  of  them,  and  God 's  over 

all! 


WHAT    OF  THE  DAY? 

Written  during  the  stirring  weeks  wher-  the 
great  political  battle  for  Freedom  under  Fre*- 
mont's  leadership  was  permitting  strong  hope 
of  success,  —  a  hope  overshadowed  and  solem 
nized  by  a  sense  of  the  magnitude  of  the  bar 
baric  evil,  and  a  forecast  of  the  unscrupulous 
and  desperate  use  of  all  its  powers  in  the  last 
and  decisive  struggle. 

A  SOUND  of  tumult  troubles  all  the  air, 
Like  the  low  thunders  of  a  sultry  sky 
Far-rolling  ere    the    downright    lightnings 

glare  ; 
The  hills  blaze  red  with  warnings  ;  foes 

draw  nigh, 
Treacling   the   dark  with  challenge  and 

reply. 

Behold  the  burden  of  the  prophet's  vision  : 
The  gathering  hosts,  —  the  Valley  of  Deci 
sion. 


THE   PANORAMA 


323 


Dusk  with  the  wings  of  eagles  wheeling 

o'er. 
Day    of    the    Lord,  of   darkness  and   not 

light ! 
It  breaks  in  thunder  and  the  whirlwind's 

roar  ! 

Even  so,  Father  !     Let  Thy  will  be  done  ; 
Turn  and  o'erturn,  end  what  Thou  hast  be 
gun 

in  judgment  or  in  inerey  :  as  for  me, 
If  but  the  least  and  frailest,  let  me  be 
Erermore  numbered  with  the  truly  free 
Who  mid  Thy  service  perfect  liberty  ! 
1  fain  would  thank  Thee  that  my  mortal 

life 
Has  reached  the  hour  (albeit  through  care 

and  pain  ) 

When  Good  and  Evil,  as  for  final  strife, 
Close    dim    and  vast   on    Armageddon's 

plain  ; 

And  Michael  and  his  angels  once  again 
Drive  howling  back   the  Spirits  of   the 

Night. 

Oh  for  the  faith  to  read  the  signs  aright 
And,  from  the  angle  of  Thy  perfect  sight, 
See  Truth's  white  banner  floating  on  be 
fore  ; 
And   the  Good  Cause,  despite  of   venal 

friends, 

And  base  expedients,  move  to  noble  ends  ; 
See  Peace  with  Freedom  make  to  Time 

amends, 

And,  through  its  cloud  of  dust,  the  thresh 
ing-floor, 

Flailed    by    the    thunder,    heaped   with 
chaff]  ess  grain  ! 


A    SONG 

INSCRIBED   TO   THE   FREMONT   CLUBS 

Written  after  the  election  in  1856,  which 
showed  the  immense  gains  of  the  Free  Soil 
party,  and  insured  its  success  in  1860. 

BENEATH  thy  skies,  November ! 

Thy  skies  of  cloud  and  rain, 
Around  our  blazing  camp-fires 
We  close  our  ranks  again. 
Then  sound  again  the  bugles, 
Call  the  muster-roll  anew  ; 
If  months  have  well-nigh  won  the  field, 
What  may  not  four  years  do  ? 


For  God  be  praised  !     New  England 
Takes  once  more  her  ancient  place  ; 

Again  the  Pilgrim's  banner 

Leads  the  vanguard  of  the  race. 
Then  sound  again  the  bugles,  etc. 

Along  the  lordly  Hudson, 

A  shout  of  triumph  breaks  ; 
The  Empire  State  is  speaking, 

From  the  ocean  to  the  lakes. 

Then  sound  again  the  bugles,  etc. 

The  Northern  hills  are  blazing, 
The  Northern  skies  are  bright ; 

And  the  fair  young  West  is  turning 
Her  forehead  to  the  light ! 

Then  sound  again  the  bugles,  etc. 

Push  every  outpost  nearer, 

Press  hard  the  hostile  towers  1 
Another  Balakl-ava, 

And  ihe  Malakoff  is  ours  ! 
Then  sound  again  the  bugles, 
Call  the  muster-roll  anew  ; 
If  months  have  well-nigh  won  the  field^ 
What  may  not  four  years  do  ? 


THE   PANORAMA 

[Written  with  a  view  to  political  effect  in 
the  Presidential  campaign  of  1856.  It  waa 
read  by  T.  Starr  King'  at  the  opening  of  a 
course  of  lectures  on  slavery  delivered  in  Bos 
ton  at  that  time.] 

"  A  !  fredome  is  a  nobill  thing  ! 
Fredome  mayse  man  to  haif  liking. 
Fredome  all  solace  to  man  giffis  ; 
He  levys  at  ese  that  frely  levys  I 
A  nobil  hart  may  haif  nane  ese 
Na  ellys  nocht  that  may  him  plese 
Gyff  Fredome  failythe." 

ARCHDEACON  BARBOTTH, 

THROUGH  the  long   hall   the   shuttered 

windows  shed 

A  dubious  light  on  every  upturned  head  ; 
On  locks  like  those  of  Absalom  the  fair, 
On  the  bald  apex  ringed  with  scanty  hair, 
On  blank  indifference  and  on  curious  stare  ; 
On    the    pale    Showman  reading  from  his 

stage 

The  hieroglyphics  of  that  facial  page  ; 
Half   sad,   half  scornful,  listening  to  thf 

bruit 
Of  restless  cane-tap  and  impatient  foot, 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


And  the  shrill  call,  across  the  general  din, 
"  Koll  up  your  curtain  !      Let  the  show  be 
gin  !  " 

At  length  a  murmur  like  the  winds  that 

break 

Into  ^reen  waves  the  prairie's  grassy  lake, 
Deepened  and  swelled  to  music  clear  and 

loud, 

And,  as  the  west-wind  lifts  a  summer  cloud, 
The  curtain  rose,  disclosing  wide  and  far 
A  green  land  stretching  to  the  evening  star, 
Fair  rivers,  skirted  by  primeval  trees 
And  flowers   hummed  over  by  the    desert 

bees, 

Marked  by  tall  bluffs  whose  slopes  of  green 
ness  show 

Fantastic  outcrops  of  the  rock  below  ; 
The  slow  result  of  patient  Nature's  pains, 
And  plastic  fingering  of  her  sun  and  rains  ; 
Arch,  tower,    and  gate,  grotesquely  win 
dowed  hall, 
And    long   escarpment    of    half  -  crumbled 

wall, 
Eiuger  than  those  which,  from   steep  hills 

of  vine, 

Stare  through  their  loopholes  on  the  trav 
elled  Rhine  ; 

Suggesting  vaguely  to  the  gazer's  mind 
A  fancy,  idle  as  the  prairie  wind, 
Of  the  land's  dwellers  in  an  age  unguessed  ; 
The  unsung  Jotuns  of  the  mystic  West. 

Beyond,  the  prairie's  sea-like  swells  sur 
pass 

The  Tartar's  marvels  of  his  Land  of  Grass, 

Vast  as  the  sky  against  whose  sunset  shores 

Wave  after   wave    the    billowy  greenness 
pours  ; 

And,    onward    still,   like    islands    in   that 
main 

Loom  the  rough  peaks  of  many  a  mountain 
chain, 

Whence  east  and  west  a  thousand  waters 
run 

From  winter  lingering  under  summer's  sun. 

And,  still  beyond,  long  lines  of  foam  and 
sand 

Tell  where  Pacific  rolls  his  waves  a-land, 

From  many  a  wide-lapped   port  and  land 
locked  bay, 

Opening  with  thunderous  pomp  the  world's 
highway 

To  Indian  isles  of  spice,  and  marts  of  far 
Cathav- 


"  Such,"  said  the  Showman,  as  the  cur 
tain  fell, 

"  Is  the  new  Canaan  of  our  Israel  ; 
The  land  of  promise  to  the  swarming  North 
Which,  hive-like,  sends  its  annual  surplus 

forth, 

To  the  poor  Southron  on   his  worn-out  soil, 
Scathed  by  the  curses  of  unnatural  toil ; 
To  Europe's  exiles  seeking  home  and  rest, 
And  the    lank   nomads   of   the    wandering 

West, 

Wrho,  asking  neither,  in  their  love  of  change 
And  the  free  bison's  amplitude  of  range, 
Rear  the  log-hut,  for  present  shelter  meant, 
Not  future  comfort,  like  an  Arab's  tent." 

Then  spake  a  shrewd  on-looker,  "Sir," 

said  he, 

"  I  like  your  picture,  but  I  fain  would  see 
A  sketch  of  what  your  promised  land  will 

be 

When,  with  electric  nerve  and  fiery-brained, 
With  Nature's  forces  to  its  chariot  chained, 
The  future  grasping,  by  the  past  obeyed, 
The  twentieth  century  rounds  a  new  de 
cade." 

Then  said  the  Showman,    sadly  :    "  He 

who  grieves 

Over  the  scattering  of  the  sibyl's  leaves 
Unwisely  mourns.     Suffice  it,  that  we  know 
What  needs  must  ripen  from  the  seeds  we 

sow  ; 

That  present  time  is  but  the  mould  wherein 
We  cast  the  shapes  of  holiness  and  sin. 
A  painful  watcher  of  the  passing  hour, 
Its  lust  of  gold,  its  strife   for   place  and 

power  ; 
Its    lack   of   manhood,    honor,    reverence, 

truth, 
Wise-thoughted  age,  and  generous-hearted 

youth  ; 

Nor  yet  unmindful  of  each  better  sign, 
The  low,  far   lights,  which   on   th'  horizoii 

shine, 
Like  those  which  sometimes  tremble  on  the 

rim 

Of  clouded  skies  when  day  is  closing  dim, 
Flashing  athwart  the  purple  spears  of  rain 
The  hope  of  sunshine  on  the  hills  again  : 
I  need  no  prophet's  word,  nor  shapes  that 

pass 

Like  clouding  shadows  o'er  a  magic  glass  ; 
For  now,  as  ever,  passionless  and  cold, 
Poth  the  dread  angel  of  the  future  hold 


THE   PANORAMA 


Evil  and  good  before  us,  with  no  voice 

Or  warning  look  to  guide  us  in  our  choice  ; 

With  spectral  hands  outreaching  through 

the  gloom 

The  shadowy  contrasts  of  the  coming  doom. 
Transferred  from  these,  it  now  remains  to 

give 
The  sun  and  shade  of  Fate's  alternative." 

Then,  with  a  burst   of   music,  touching 

all 
The  keys  of  thrifty  life,  —  the  mill-stream's 

fall, 

The  engine's  pant  along  its  quivering  rails, 
The  anvil's  ring,  the  measured  beat  of  flails, 
The  sweep  of  scythes,  the  reaper's  whistled 

tune, 

Answering  the  summons  of  the  bells  of  noon, 
The  woodman's  hail  along  the  river  shores, 
The  steamboat's  signal,  and  the  dip  of  oars  : 
Slowly  the  curtain  rose  from  off  a  land 
Fair  as  God's  garden.  Broad  on  either  hand 
The  golden  wheat-fields  glimmered  in  the 

sun, 

And  the  tall  maize  its  yellow  tassels  spun. 
Smooth  highways  set  with  hedge-rows  liv 
ing  green, 
With  steepled  towns  through  shaded  vistas 

seen, 

The  school-house  murmuring  with  its  hive- 
like  swarm, 
The  brook-bank  whitening  in  the  grist-mill's 

storm, 
The  painted  farm-house  shining  through  the 

leaves 

Of  fruited  orchards  bending  at  its  eaves, 
Where   live    again,    around    the    Western 

hearth, 

The  homely  old-time  virtues  of  the  North  ; 
Where  the  blithe  housewife  rises  with  the 

day, 

And  well-paid  labor  counts  his  task  a  play. 
And,  grateful  tokens  of  a  Bible  free, 
And  the  free  Gospel  of  Humanity, 
Of  diverse  sects  and  differing  names  the 

shrines, 
One  in  their  faith,  whate'er  their  outward 

signs, 
Like  varying  strophes  of  the  same  sweet 

hymn 
From  many  a   prairie's  swell   and   river's 

brim, 

A  thousand  church-spires  sanctify  the  air 
Of   the  calm  Sabbath,  with   their  sign  of 

prayer. 


Like  sudden  nightfall  over   bloom   and 

green 

The  curtain  dropped  :  and,  momently,  be 
tween 

The  clank  of  fetter  and  the  crack  of  thong, 
Half  sob,  half  latighter,  music  swept  along  ; 
A  strange  refrain,  whose  idle  words  and  low, 
Like  drunken  mourners,  kept  the  time  of 

woe  ; 

As  if  the  revellers  at  a  masquerade 
Heard    in    the    distance    funeral    marches 

played. 

Such  music,  dashing  all  his  smiles  with  tears, 
The  thoughtful  voyager  on  Pontchartrain 

hears, 
Where,    through     the    noonday    dusk    of 

wooded  shores 

The  negro  boatman,  singing  to  his  oars, 
With  a  wild  pathos  borrowed  of  his  wrong 
Redeems  the  jargon  of  his  senseless  song. 
"  Look,"  said  the  Showman,  sternly,  as  he 

rolled 

His  curtain  upward.      "  Fate's  reverse  be 
hold  ! " 


A  village  straggling  in  loose  disarray 
Of  vulgar  newness,  premature  decay  ; 
A  tavern,  crazy  with  its  whiskey  brawls, 
With  <:  Slaves  at  Auction!"  garnishing  its 

walls  ; 

Without,  surrounded  by  a  motley  crowd, 
The  shrewd-eyed  salesman,  garrulous  and 

loud, 

A  squire  or  colonel  in  his  pride  of  place, 
Known  at  free  fights,  the  caucus,  and  the 

race, 

Prompt  to  proclaim  his  honor  without  blot, 
And  silence  doubters  with  a  ten-pace  shot, 
Mingling  the  negro-driving  bully's  rant 
With  pious  phrase  and  democratic  cant, 
Yet  never  scrupling,  with  a  filthy  jest, 
To  sell  the  infant  from  its  mother's  breast. 
Break  through  all  ties  of  wedlock,  home, 

and  kin, 
Yield  shrinking  girlhood  up  to  graybeard 

sin  ; 

Sell  all  the  virtues  with  his  human  stock, 
The  Christian  graces  on  his  auction-block, 
And  coolly  count  on  shrewdest  bargains 

driven 
In  hearts  regenerate,  and  in  souls  forgiven  J 

Look  once  again  !      The  moving  canvas 

shows 
A  slave  plantation's  slovenly  repose, 


326 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Where,  in  rude  cabins  rotting  midst  their 
weeds, 

The  human  chattel  eats,  and  sleeps,  and 
breeds  ; 

And,  held  a  brute,  in  practice,  as  in  law, 

Becomes  in  fact  the  thing  lie  's  taken  for. 

There,  early  summoned  to  the  hemp  and 
corn, 

The  nursing  mother  leaves  her  child  new 
born  ; 

There  haggard  sickness,  weak  and  deathly 
faint, 

Crawls  to  his  task,  and  fears  to  make  com 
plaint  ; 

And  sad-eyed  Rachels,  childless  in  decay, 

Weep  for  their  lost  ones  sold  and  torn 
away  ! 

Of  ampler  size  the  master's  dwelling  stands, 

In  shabby  keeping  with  his  half-tilled  lands  ; 

The  gates  unhinged,  the  yard  with  weeds 
unclean, 

The  cracked  veranda  with  a  tipsy  lean. 

Without,  loose-scattered  like  a  wreck  adrift, 

Signs  of  misrule  and  tokens  of  unthrift ; 

Within,  profusion  to  discomfort  joined, 

The  listless  body  and  the  vacant  mind  ; 

The  fear,  the  hate,  the  theft  and  falsehood, 
born 

In  menial  hearts  of  toil,  and  stripes,  and 
scorn  ! 

There,  all  the  vices,  which,  like  birds  ob 
scene, 

Batten  on  slavery  loathsome  and  unclean, 

From  the  foul  kitchen  to  the  parlor  rise, 

Pollute  the  nursery  where  the  child-heir 
lies, 

Taint  infant  lips  beyond  all  after  cnre, 

With  the  fell  poison  of  a  breast  impure  ; 

Touch  boyhood's  passions  with  the  breath  of 
flame, 

From  girlhood's  instincts  steal  the  blush  of 
shame. 

So  swells,  from  low  to  high,  from  weak  to 
strong, 

The  tragic  chorus  of  the  baleful  wrong  ; 

Guilty  or  guiltless,  all  within  its  range 

Feel  the  blind  justice  of  its  sure  revenge. 

Still  scenes  like  these  the  moving  chart 

reveals. 
Up  the  long  western  steppes  the  blighting 

steals  ; 

Down  the  Pacific  slope  the  evil  Fate 
Glides  like  a  shadow  to  the  Golden  Gate  : 
From  sea  to  sea  the  drear  eclipse  is  thrown, 


From  sea  to  sea  the  Mauvaises  Terres  have 

grown, 
A  belt  of  curses  on  the  New  World's  zone  ! 

The  curtain  fell.  All  drew  a  freer  breath, 
As  men  are  wont  to  do  when  mournful  death 
Is  covered  from  their  sight.  The  Showman 

stood 

With  drooping  brow  in  sorrow's  attitude 
One    moment,  then    with    sudden   gesture 

shook 
His  loose  hair  back,  and  with  the  air  and 

look 

Of  one  who  felt,  beyond  the  narrow  stage 
And  listening  group,  the  presence  of    the 

age, 

And  heard  the  footsteps  of  the  things  to  be 
Poured  out  his  soul  in  earnest  words  anc 

free. 

"  O  friends  !  "  he  said,  "  in  this  poor  tricl 

of  paint 
You   see    the    semblance,    incomplete   anc 

faint, 

Of  the  two-fronted  Fiiture,  which,  to-day, 
Stands  dim  and  silent,  waiting  in  your  way 
To-day  your  servant,  subject  to  your  will ; 
To-morrow,  master,  or  for  good  or  ill. 
If  the  dark  face  of  Slavery  on  you  turns, 
If  the  mad  curse  its  paper  barrier  spurns, 
If  the  world  granary  of  the  West  is  made 
The  last  foul  market  of  the  slaver's  trade, 
Why  rail  at  fate  ?      The  mischief  is  your 

own. 

Why  hate  your  neighbor  ?      Blame  your 
selves  alone  ! 

"  Men  of  the  North  !       The  South  you 

charge  with  wrong 
Is  weak  and  poor,  while  you  are  rich  and 

strong. 

If  questions,  —  idle  and  absurd  as  those 
The  old-time  monks  and    Paduan  doctors 

chose,  — 
Mere  ghosts  of  questions,  tariffs,  and  dead 

banks, 
And  scarecrow  pontiffs,  never  broke  your 

ranks, 

Your  thews  united  could,  at  once,  roll  baci 
The  jostled  nation  to  its  primal  track. 
Nay,  were  you  simply  steadfast,  manly,  just, 
True  to  the  faith  your  fathers  left  in  trust. 
If  stainless  honor  outweighed  in  your  scale 
A  codfish  quintal  or  a  factory  bale, 
Full  many  a  noble  heart,  (and  such  remaiB 


THE   PANORAMA 


327 


In  all  the  South,  like  Lot  in  Siddim's  plain, 

Who  watch  and  wait,  and  from  the  wrong's 
control 

Keep  white  and  pure  their  chastity  of  soul,) 

Now  sick  to  loathing  of  your  weak  com 
plaints, 

Your  tricks  as  sinners,  and  your  prayers  as 
saints, 

Would  half-way  meet  the  frankness  of  your 
tone, 

And  feel  their  pulses  beating  with  your 
own. 

"  The  North  !  the  South  !  no  geographic 

line 

Can  fix  the  boundary  or  the  point  define, 
Since  each  with  each  so  closely  interblends, 
Where  Slavery  rises,  and  where  Freedom 

ends. 
Beneath  your  rocks  the  roots,  far-reaching, 

hide 

Of  the  fell  Upas  on  the  Southern  side  ; 
The  tree  whose  branches  in  your  north  winds 

wave 
Dropped    its   young   blossoms    on    Mount 

Vernon's  grave  ; 

The  nursing  growth  of  Monticello's  crest, 
Is  now  the  glory  of  the  free  Northwest  ; 
To  the  wise  maxims  of  her  olden  school 
Virginia  listened  from  thy  lips,  Rantoul ; 
Se ward's   words    of   power,  and  Sumner's 

fresh  renown, 

Flow  from  the  pen  that  Jefferson  laid  down  ! 
And  when,  at  length,  her  years  of  madness 

o'er, 
Like   the    crowned   grazer   on    Euphrates' 

shore, 

From  her  long  lapse  to  savagery,  her  mouth 
Bitter    with   baneful    herbage,    turns    the 

South, 

Resumes  her  old  attire,  and  seeks  to  smooth 
Her  unkempt  tresses  at  the  glass  of  truth, 
Her  early  faith  shall  find  a  tongue  agnin, 
New  Wythes  and  Pinckneys  swell  that  old 

refrain, 
Her   sons    with   yours   renew  the    ancient 

pact, 

The  myth  of  Union  prove  at  last  a  fact  ! 
Then,  if  one  murmur  mars  the  wide  con 
tent, 

Some  Northern  lip  will  drawl  the  last  dis 
sent, 

Some  Union-saving  patriot  of  your  own 
Lament  to  find  his  occupation  gone. 


"Grant     that     the     North's     insulted, 

scorned,  betrayed, 
O'erreached  in  bargains  with  her  neighbor 

made, 

When  selfish  thrift  and  party  held  the  scales 
For  peddling  dicker,  not  for  honest  sales,  — 
Whom  shall  we  strike  ?      Who  most  de 
serves  our  blame  ? 

The  braggart  Southron,  open  in  his  aim, 
And    bold    as    wicked,    crashing    straight 

through  all 

That  bars  his  purpose,  like  a  cannon-ball  ? 
Or   the    mean  traitor,  breathing    northern 

air, 

With  nasal  speech  and  puritanic  hair, 
Whose  cant  the  loss  of  principle  survives, 
As  the  mud-turtle  e'en  its  head  outlives  ; 
Who,  caught,    chin -buried    in    some    foul 

offence, 

Puts  on  a  look  of  injured  innocence, 
And  consecrates  his  baseness  to  the  cause 
Of  constitution,  union,  and  the  laws  ? 

"  Praise  to  the  place-man  who  can  hold 

aloof 

His  still  unpurchased  manhood,  office- 
proof 

Who  on  his  round  of  duty  walks  erect, 
And  leaves  it  only  rich  in  self-respect  ; 
As  More  maintained  his  virtue's  lofty  port 
In   the    Eighth    Henry's    base  and  bloody 

court. 

But,  if  exceptions  here  and  there  are  found, 
Who  tread  thus  safely  on  enchanted  ground, 
The  normal  type,  the  fitting  symbol  still 
Of  those  who  fatten  at  the  public  mill, 
Is  the  chained  dog  beside  his  master's  door, 
Or  Circe's  victim,  feeding  on  all  four  ! 

"  Give  me  the  heroes  who,  at  tuck  of 
drum, 

Salute  thy  staff,  immortal  Quattlebum  ! 

Or  they  who,  doubly  armed  with  vote  and 
gun, 

Following  thy  lead,  illustrious  Atchison, 

Their  drunken  franchise  shift  from  scene 
to  scene, 

As  tile-beard  Jourdan  did  his  guillotine  ! 

Rather  than  him  who,  born  beneath  our 
skies, 

To  Slavery's  hand  its  supplest  tool  sup 
plies  ; 

The  party  felon  whose  unblushing  face 

Looks  from  the  pillory  of  his  bribe  of  t>lace. 


328 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


And  coolly  makes  a  merit  of  disgrace, 
Points  to  the  footmarks  of  indignant  scorn, 
Shows   the    deep    scars  of   satire's  tossing 

horn  ; 

And  passes  to  his  credit  side  the  sum 
Of   all   that  makes  a  scoundrel's  martyr 
dom  ! 

"  Bane  of  the  North,  its  canker  and  its 

moth  ! 
These  modern  Esaus,  bartering  rights  for 

broth  ! 

Taxing  our  justice,  with  their  double  claim, 
As  fools  for  pity,  and  as  knaves  for  blame  ; 
Who,  urged  by  party,  sect,  or  trade,  within 
The  fell  embrace  of  Slavery's  sphere  of 

sin, 

Part  at  the  outset  with  their  moral  sense, 
The  watchful  angel  set  for  Truth's  defence  ; 
Confound  all  contrasts,  good  and  ill ;  re 
verse 

The  poles  of  life,  its  blessing  and  its  curse  ; 
And  lose  thenceforth  from  their  perverted 

sight 
The    eternal    difference    'twixt  the    wrong 

and  right  ; 

To  them  the  Law  is  but  the  iron  span 
That  girds  the  ankles  of  imbruted  man  ; 
To  them  the  Gospel  lias  no  higher  aim 
Than  simple  sanction  of  the  master's  claim, 
Dragged   in  the  slime  of  Slavery's  loath 
some  trail, 
Like  Chalier's  Bible  at  his  ass's  tail ! 

"  Such  are  the  men  who,  with  instinctive 

dread, 

Whenever  Freedom  lifts  her  drooping  head, 
Make  prophet-tripods  of  their  office-stools, 
And  scare  the  nurseries  and  the  village 

schools 

With  dire  presage  of  ruin  grim  and  great, 
A  broken  Union  and  a  foundered  State  ! 
Such   are    the  patriots,  self-bound   to   the 

stake 

Of  office,  martyrs  for  their  country's  sake: 
Who  fill  themselves  the  hungry  jaws  of 

Fate, 
And   by  their  loss   of   manhood  save  the 

State. 
In  the  wide  gulf  themselves  like  Curtius 

throw, 

And  test  the  virtues  of  cohesive  dough  ; 
As  tropic  monkeys,  linking  heads  and  tails, 
Bridge    o'er   some    torrent    of    Ecuador's 

vales  1 


"  Such  are  the  men  who  in  your  churche 

rave 

To  swearing-point,  at  mention  of  the  slave 
When  some  poor  parson,  haply  unawares, 
Stammers  of  freedom  in  his  tirnid  prayer* 
Who,  if  some  foot-sore  negro  through  th< 

town 
Steals  northward,  volunteer   to   hunt  hin 

down. 

Or,  if  some  neighbor,  flying  from  disease, 
Courts  the  mild  balsam  of  the  Southeri 

breeze, 

With  hue  and  cry  pursue  him  on  his  track 
And  write  Free-soiler  on  the  poor  man's 

back. 
Such  are  the  men  who  leave  the  pedler'j 

cart, 
While  faring  South,  to  learn  the  driver's 

art, 
Or,  in  white  neckcloth,  soothe  with  piou: 

aim 
The    graceful    sorrows   of    some    languic 

dame, 
Who,  from  the  wreck  of  her  bereavement 

saves 
The    double    charm    of    widowhood    anc 

slaves  ! 

Pliant  and  apt,  they  lose  no  chance  to  shov 
To  what  base  depths  apostasy  can  go  ; 
Outdo  the  natives  in  their  readiness 
To  roast  a  negro,  or  to  mob  a  press  ; 
Poise  a  tarred  schoolmate  on  the  lyncher'f 

rail, 
Or  make  a  bonfire  of  their  birthplace  mail 

"  So    some    poor   wretch,  whose  lips  nc 

longer  bear 

The  sacred  burden  of  his  mother's  prayer, 
By  fear  impelled,  or  lust  of  gold  enticed, 
Turns  to  the  Crescent  from  the  Cross  oi 

Christ, 

And,  overacting  in  superfluous  zeal, 
Crawls  prostrate   where  the  faithful  onlj 

kneel, 
Out-howls  the   Dervish,  hugs  his  rags  tc 

court 

The  squalid  Santon's  sanctity  of  dirt  ; 
And,  when  beneath  the  city  gateway's  spar 
Files  slow  and  long  the  Meccan  caravan, 
And  through  its  midst,  pursued  by  Islam's 

prayers, 
The  prophet's  Word  some  favored  camel 

bears, 

The  marked  apostate  has  his  place  assigned 
The  Koran-bearer's  sacred  rump  behind, 


THE   PANORAMA 


329 


With  brush  and  pitcher  following,  grave 

and  mute, 
In  meek  attendance  on  the  holy  brute  ! 

"  Men  of  the  North  !  beneath  your  very 

eyes, 

By  hearth  and  home,  your  real  danger  lies. 
Still  day  by  day  some  hold  of  freedom  falls 
Through  home-bred  traitors  fed  within  its 

walls. 
Men  whom  yourselves  with  vote  and  purse 

sustain, 

At  posts  of  honor,  influence,  and  gain  ; 
The  right  of  Slavery  to  your  sons  to  teach, 
And  '  South-side  '  Gospels  in  your  pulpits 

preach, 

Transfix  the  Law  to  ancient  freedom  dear 
On  the  sharp  point  of  her  subverted  spear, 
And  imitate  upon  her  cushion  plump 
The   mad    Missourian   lynching   from    his 

stump  ; 

Or,  in  your  name,  upon  the  Senate's  floor 
Yield  up  to  Slavery  all  it  asks,  and  more  ; 
And,  ere  your  dull  eyes  open  to  the  cheat, 
Sell  your  old  homestead  underneath  your 

feet  ! 
While  such  as  these  your  loftiest  outlooks 

hold, 
While  truth  and  conscience  with  your  wares 

are  sold, 

While  grave-browed  merchants  band  them 
selves  to  aid 
An    annual    man-hunt  for   their    Southern 

trade, 

What  moral  power  within  your  grasp  re 
mains 

To  stay  the  mischief  on  Nebraska's  plains  ? 
High  as  the  tides  of  generous  impulse  flow, 
As  far  rolls  back  the  selfish  undertow  ; 
And  all  your  brave  resolves,  though  aimed 

as  true 

As  the  horse-pistol  Balmawhapple  drew, 
To  Slavery's  bastions  lend  as  slight  a  shock 
As  the  poor  trooper's  shot  to  Stirling  rock! 

"  Yet,  while  the  need  of  Freedom's  cause- 
demands 

The  earnest  efforts  of  your  hearts  and  hands, 

Urged  by  all  motives  that  can  prompt  the 
heart 

To  prayer  and  toil  and  manhood's  manliest 
part  ; 

Though  to  the  soul's  deep  tocsin  Nature 
joins 

The  warning  whisper  of  her  Orphic  pines, 


The  north-wind's  anger,  and  the  south- 
wind's  sigh, 

The  midnight  sword-dance  of  the  northern 
sky, 

And,  to  the  ear  that  bends  above  the  sod 

Of  the  green  grave-mounds  in  the  Fields  of 
God, 

In  low,  deep  murmurs  of  rebuke  or  cheer, 

The  land's  dead  fathers  speak  their  hope  or 
fear, 

Yet  let  not  Passion  wrest  from  Reason's 
hand 

The  guiding  rein  and  symbol  of  command. 

Blame  not  the  caution  proffering  to  your 
zeal 

A  well-meant  drag  upon  its  hurrying  wheel ; 

Nor  chide  the  man  whose  honest  doubt  ex 
tends 

To  the  means  only,  not  the  righteous  ends  ; 

Nor  fail  to  weigh  the  scruples  and  the  fear* 

Of  milder  natures  and  serene?  years. 

In  the  long  strife  with  evil  which  began 

With  the  first  lapse  of  new-created  man, 

Wisely  and  well  has  Providence  assigned 

To  each  his  part,  —  some  forward,  some  be-1 
hind  ; 

And  they,  too,  serve  who  temper  and  re 
strain 

The  o'erwarm  heart  that  sets  on  fire  the 
brain. 

True  to  yourselves,  feed  Freedom's  altar- 
flame 

With  what  you  have  ;  let  others  do  the  same. 

Spare  timid  doubters  ;  set  like  flint  youi 
face 

Against  the  self-sold  knaves  of  gain  ancl 
place  : 

Pity  the  weak  ;  but  with  unsparing  hand 

Cast  out  the  traitors  who  infest  the  land  ; 

From  bar,  press,  pulpit,  cast  them  every 
where, 

By  dint  of  fasting,  if  you  fail  by  prayer. 

And  in  their  place  bring  men  of  antique 
mould, 

Like  the  grave  fathers  of  your  Age  of  Gold  ; 

Statesmen  like  those  who  sought  the  primal 
fount 

Of  righteous  law,  the  Sermon  on  the 
Mount  ; 

Lawyers  who  prize,  like  Quincy,  (to  our  day 

Still  spared,  Heaven  bless  him  !)  honor 
more  than  pay, 

And  Christian  jurists,  starry-pure,  like  Jay  ; 

Preachers  like  Woolman,  or  like  them  who 
bore 


33° 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


The  faith  of  Wesley  to  our  Western  shore, 
And   held  no  convert  genuine  till   he  broke 
Alike  his  servants'  and  the  Devil's  yoke  ; 
And  priests  like  him  who  Newport's  mar 
ket  trod, 
And  o'er  its  slave-ships  shook  the  bolts  of 

God! 
So  shall  your  power,  with  a  wise  prudence 

used, 

Strong  but  forbearing,  firm  but  not  abused, 
In  kindly  keeping  with  the  good  of  all, 
The  nobler  maxims  of  the  past  recall, 
Her  natural  home-born  right  to  Freedom 

give, 

And  laave  her  foe  his  robber-right,  —  to  live. 
Live,  as  the  snake  does  in  his  noisome  fen  ! 
Live,  as  the  wolf  does  in  his  bone-strewn 

den  ! 
Live,  clothed  with  cursing  like   a  robe  of 

flame, 

The  focal  point  of  million-fingered  shame  ! 
Live,  till  the  Southron,  who,  with  all  his 

faults, 

Has  manly  instincts,  in  his  pride  revolts, 
Dashes  from  off  him,  midst  the  glad  world's 

cheers, 
The    hideous   nightmare  of   his  dream   of 

years, 
And  lifts,  self-prompted,  with  his  own  right 

hand, 
The  vile    encumbrance    from  his    glorious 

land  ! 

"  So,  wheresoe'er  our  destiny  sends  forth 
Its  widening  circles  to  the  South  or  North, 
Where'er  our  banner  flaunts  beneath  the 

stars 

Its  mimic  splendors  and  its  cloudlike  bars, 
There  shall  Free  Labor's  hardy  children 

stand 

The  equal  sovereigns  of  a  slaveless  land. 
And  when  at  last  the  hunted  bison  tires, 
And  dies  o'ertaken  by  the  squatter's  fires  ; 
And  westward,  wave  011  wave,  the  living 

flood 

Breaks  on  the  snow-line  of  majestic  Hood  ; 
And  lonely  Shasta  listening  hears  the  tread 
Of  Europe's  fair-haired  children,  Hesper- 

led; 

And,  gazing  downward  through  his  hoar- 
locks,  sees 

The  tawny  Asian  climb  his  giant  knees, 
The  Eastern  sea  shall  hush  his  waves  to 

hear 
Pacific's  surf-beat  answer  Freedom's  cheer, 


And  one  long  rolling  fire  of  triumph  run 
Between  the  sunrise  and  the  sunset  gun  ! " 


My  task  is  done.     The  Showman  and  his 

show, 

Themselves  but  shadows,  into  shadows  go  ; 
And,  if  no  song  of  idlesse  I  have  sung, 
Nor  tints  of  beauty  on  the  canvas  flung  ; 
If  the  harsh  numbers  grate  on  tender  ears, 
And  the  rough  picture  overwrought  appears, 
With  deeper  coloring,  with  a  sterner  blast. 
Before  my  soul  a  voice  and  vision  passed, 
Such  as  might  Milton's  jarring  trump  re 
quire, 

Or  glooms  of  Dante  fringed  with  lurid  fire. 
Oh,  not  of  choice,  for  themes  of  public  wrong 
I  leave  the  green  and  pleasant  paths  of  song, 
The  mild,  sweet  words  which  soften  and 

adorn, 

For  sharp  rebuke  and  bitter  laugh  of  scorn. 
More  dear  to  me  some  song  of  private  worth, 
Some  homely  idyl  of  mv  native  North, 
Some  summer  pastoral  of  her  inland  vales, 
Or,  grim    and    weird,  her   winter   fireside 

tales 

Haunted  by  ghosts  of  unreturning  sails, 
Lost  barks  at  parting  hung  from  stem  to 

helm 
With  prayers  of  love  like  dreams  on  Virgil's 

elm. 

Nor  private  grief  nor  malice  holds  my  pen  ; 
I  owe  but  kindness  to  my  fellow-men  ; 
And,  South  or  North,  wherever  hearts  of 

prayer 

Their  woes  and  weakness  to  our  Father  bear, 
Wherever  fruits  of  Christian  love  are  found 
In  holy  lives,  to  me  is  holy  ground. 
But  the  time  passes.     It  were  vain  to  crave 
A  late  indulgence.     What  I  had  1  gave. 
Forget  the  poet,  but  his  warning  heed, 
And  shame  his  poor  word  with  your  nobler 

deed. 


ON   A   PRAYER-BOOK 

WITH  ITS  FRONTISPIECE,  ARY  SCHEFFER'S 
"CHRISTUS  CONSOLATOR,"  AMERICAN 
IZED  BY  THE  OMISSION  OF  THE  BLACK 
MAN 

It  is  hardly  to  be  credited,  vet  is  true,  that 
in  the  anxiety  of  the  Northern  merchant  to 
conciliate  his  Southern  customer,  a  publisher 
was  found  ready  thus  to  mutilate.  Scheff«r'« 


ON  A   PRAYER-BOOK 


picture.  He  intended  his  edition  for  use  in  the 
Southern  States  undoubtedly,  but  copies  fell 
into  the  hands  of  those  who  believed  literally 
in  a  gospel  which  was  to  preach  liberty  to  the 
captive. 

O  ARY  SCHEFFER  !  when  beneath  thine  eye, 
Touched  with  the  light  that  cometh  from 

above, 
Grew  the  sweet  picture  of  the  dear  Lord's 

love, 
No  dream  hadst  thou   that  Christian  hands 

would  tear 
Therefrom  the  token  of  His  equal  care, 

And  make  thy  symbol  of  His  truth  a  lie  ! 
The  poor,  dumb  slave  whose  shackles  fall 

away 
In   His    compassionate     gaze,    grubbed 

smoothly  out, 

To  mar  no  more  the  exercise  devout 
Of  sleek  oppression  kneeling  down  to  pray 
Where  the  great  oriel  stains    the   Sabbath 

day  ! 

Let  whoso  can  before  such  praying-books 
Kneel  on  his  velvet  cushion ;  I,  for  one, 
Would  sooner  bow,  a  Parsee,  to  the  sun, 
Or  tend  a  prayer-wheel  in  Thibetan  brooks, 
Or  beat  a  drum  on  Yedo's  temple-floor. 
No  falser  idol  man  has  bowed  before. 
In  Indian  groves  or  islands  of  the  sea, 
Than   that    which   through    the    quaint- 
carved  Gothic  door 

Looks  forth, — a  Church  without  human 
ity! 
Patron    of    pride,   and   prejudice,     and 

wrong,  — 
The  rich  man's  charm  and  fetich  of  the 

strong, 
The  Eternal  Fulness  meted,  clipped,  and 

shorn, 

The  seamless  robe  of  equal  mercy  torn, 
The  dear  Christ  hidden  from  His  kindred 

flesh, 

And,  in  His  poor  ones,  crucified  afresh  ! 
Better  the  simple  Lama  scattering  wide, 
Where    sweeps    the    storm     Alechan's 

steppes  along, 

His  paper  horses  for  the  lost  to  ride, 
And  wearying  Buddha  with  his  prayers  to 

make 

The  figures  living  for  the  traveller's  sake, 
Than  he  who  hopes  with  cheap  praise  to 

beguile 

The  ear  of  God,  dishonoring  man  the  while  ; 
Who  dreams  the  pearl  gate's  hinges,  rusty 
grown, 


Are   moved    by   flattery's    oil   of    tongue 

alone  ; 

That  in  the  scale  Eternal  Justice  bears 
The  generous  deed  weighs  less  than  selfish 

prayers, 
And  words  intoned  with  graceful   unction 

move 
The  Eternal  Goodness  more  than  lives  of 

truth  and  love. 
Alas,  the  Church  !     The  reverend  head  of 

Jay, 

Enhaloed  with  its  saintly  silvered  hair, 
Adorns  no  more  the  places  of  her  prayer  ; 
And  brave  young  Tyng,   too   early  called 

away, 
Troubles  the  Ham  an  of  her  courts   no 

more 

Like    the    just    Hebrew   at    the    Assyr 
ian's  door  ; 

And  her  sweet  ritual,  beautiful  but  dead 
As  the  dry  husk  from  which  the  grain  is 

shed, 

And  holy  hymns  from  which  the  life  de 
vout 
Of  saints  and  martyrs  has  wellnigh  gone 

out, 

Like  candles  dying  in  exhausted  air, 
For  Sabbath  use  in  measured  grists  are 

ground  ; 
And,  ever  while  the  spiritual  mill  goes 

round, 

Between  the  upper  and  the  nether  stones, 
Unseen,  unheard,  the  wretched  bondman 

groans, 

And  urges  his  vain  plea,  prayer-smothered, 
anthem-drowned  ! 

O  heart  of  mine,  keep  patience  !      Looking 
forth, 

As  from  the  Mount  of  Vision,  I  behold, 
Pure,  just,  and  free,  the  Church  of  Christ 
on  earth  ; 

The  martyr's  dream,  the  golden  age  fore 
told  ! 
And  found,  at  last,  the  mystic  Graal  I  see, 

Brimmed  with  His  blessing,  pass  from 
lip  to  lip 

In  sacred  pledge  of  human  fellowship  *, 

And  over  all  the  songs  of  angels  hear  ; 

Songs  of  the  love  that  casteth  out  all  fear  ; 

Songs  of  the  Gospel  of  Humanity  ! 

Lo  !  in  the  midst,  with  the  same  look  He 
wore, 

Healing    and    blessing   on  Gennesaret's 
shore, 


33' 


ANTI-SLAVERY    POEMS 


Folding   together,  with   the   all -tender 

might 
Of  His  great  love,  the  dark  hands  and  the 

white, 

Stands  the  Consoler,  soothing  every  pain, 
Making   all   burdens   light,  and    breaking 
every  chain. 


THE   SUMMONS 

[After  publishing  this  poem  Whittier  wrote 
to  Lucy  Larcom  :  "  I  do  not  quite  like  the  tone 
of  The  Summons  now  that  it  is  published.  It 
was,  however,  an  expression  of  a  state  of  mind 
which  thee  would  regard  as  pardonable  if  thee 
knew  all  the  circumstances.  It  is  too  complain 
ing,  and  I  hope  I  shall  not  be  left  to  do  such  a 
thing  again."] 

MY  ear  is  full  of  summer  sounds, 
Of  summer  sights  my  languid  eye  ; 

Beyond  the  dusty  village  bounds 

I  loiter  in  my  daily  rounds, 

And  in  the  noon-time  shadows  lie. 

I  hear  the  wild  bee  wind  his  horn, 

The  bird  swings  on  the  ripened  wheat, 
The  long  green  lances  of  the  corn 
Are  tilting  in  the  winds  of  morn, 
The  locust  shrills  his  song  of  heat. 

Another  sound  my  spirit  hears, 

A  deeper  sound  that  drowns  them  all  ; 
A  voice  of  pleading  choked  with  tears, 
The  call  of  human  hopes  and  fears, 
The  Macedonian  cry  to  Paul  ! 

The  storm-bell  rings,  the  trumpet  blows  ; 

I  know  the  word  and  countersign  ; 
Wherever  Freedom's  vanguard  goes, 
Where  stand  or  fall  her  friends  or  foes, 

I  know  the  place  that  should  be  mine. 

Shamed  be  the  hands  that  idly  fold, 

And  lips  that  woo  the  reed's  accord, 
When  laggard  Time  the  hour  has  tolled 
For  true  with  false  and  new  with  old 
To  fight  the  battles  of  the  Lord  ! 

O  brothers  !  blest  by  partial  Fate 

With  power  to  match  the  will  and  deed, 
To  him  your  summons  comes  too  late 
Who  sinks  beneath  his  armor's  weight, 
And  has  no  answer  but  God-speed  ! 


TO    WILLIAM    H.    SEWARD 

On  the  12th  of  January,  1861,  Mr.  Seward 
delivered  in  the  Senate  chamber  a  speech  on 
The  State  of  the  Union,  in  which  he  urged  the 
paramount  duty  of  preserving  the  Union,  and 
went  as  far  as  it  was  possible  to  go,  without 
surrender  of  principles,  in  concessions  to  the 
Southern  party. 

STATESMAN,  I  thank  thee  !  and,  if  yet  dis 
sent 

Mingles,  reluctant,  with  my  large  content, 
I  cannot  censure  what  was  nobly  meant. 
But,  while  constrained  to  hold  even  Union 

less 

Than  Liberty  and  Truth  and  Righteousness, 
I  thank  thee  in  the  sweet  and  holy  name 
Of  peace,  for  wise  calm  words  that  put  to 

shame 

Passion  and  party.     Courage  may  be  shown 
Not  in  defiance  of  the  wrong  alone  ; 
He  may  be  bravest  who,  unweaponed,  bears 
The  olive    branch,  and,  strong  in  justice, 

spares 

The  rash  wrong-doer,  giving  widest  scope 
To  Christian  charity  and  generous  hope. 
If,  without  damage  to  the  sacred  cause 
Of    Freedom   and    the    safeguard   of    its 

laws  — 

If,  without  yielding  that  for  which  alone 
We    prize   the  Union,  thou   canst   save  it 

now 

From  a  baptism  of  blood,  upon  thy  brow 
A   wreath    whose   flowers   no   earthly  soil 

have  known, 

Woven  of  the  beatitudes,  shall  rest, 
And  the  peacemaker  be  forever  blest ! 


IN   WAR   TIME 

TO    SAMUEL   E.  SEWALL    AND 
HARRIET  W.  SEWALL 

OF    MELROSE 

These  lines  to  my  old  friends  stood  as  dedi 
cation  in  the  volume  which  contained  a  collec 
tion  of  pieces  under  the  general  title  of  In 
War  Time.  The  group  belonging  distinctly 
under  that  title  I  have  retained  here;  the 
other  pieces  in  the  volume  are  distributed 
among  the  appropriate  divisions. 


A   WORD   FOR   THE   HOUR 


333 


OLOR  ISCANUS  queries  :  "  Why  should  we 
Vex  at  the  land's  ridiculous  iniserie  ?  " 
So  on  his  Usk  banks,  in  the  blood-red  dawn 
Of    England's    civil    strife,    did    careless 

Vaughan 
Bemock   his   times.     O    friends    of   many 

years  ! 
Though  faith  and  trust  are  stronger  than 

our  fears, 

And  the  signs  promise  peace  with  liberty, 
Not  thus  we  triHe  with  our  country's  tears 
And  sweat  of  agony.     The  future's  gain 
Is  certain  as  God's  truth  ;  but,  meanwhile, 

pain 

Is  bitter  and  tears  are  salt  :  our  voices  take 
A  sober  tone  ;  our  very  household  songs 
Are    heavy   with    a    nation's    griefs    and 

wrongs  ; 
And  innocent  mirth  is  chastened   for  the 

sake 
Of  the  brave  hearts  that  nevermore  shall 

beat, 
The  eyes  that  smile  no  more,  the  unreturn- 

ing  feet ! 


THY   WILL   BE   DONE 

WE  see  not,  know  not  ;  all  our  way 
Is  night,  —  with  Thee  alone  is  day  : 
From  out  the  torrent's  troubled  drift, 
Above  the  storm  our  prayers  we  lift, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

The  flesh  may  fail,  the  heart  may  faint, 
But  who  are  we  to  make  complaint, 
Or  dare  to  plead,  in  times  like  these, 
The  weakness  of  our  love  of  ease  ? 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

We  take  with  solemn  thankfulness 
Our  burden  up,  nor  ask  it  less, 
And  count  it  joy  that  even  we 
May  suffer,  serve,  or  wait  for  Thee, 
Whose  will  be  done  1 

Though  dim  as  yet  in  tint  and  line, 
We  trace  Thy  picture's  wise  design, 
And  thank  Thee  that  our  age  supplies 
Its  dark  relief  of  sacrifice. 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

And  if,  in  our  unworthinesa, 
Thy  sacrificial  wine  we  press  ; 
If  from  Thy  ordeal's  heated  bars 


Our  feet  are  seamed  with  crimson  scars, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

If,  for  the  age  to  come,  this  hour 
Of  trial  hath  vicarious  power, 
And,  blest  by  Thee,  our  present  pain 
Be  Liberty's  eternal  gain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 

Strike,  Thou  the  Master,  we  Thy  keys> 
The  anthem  of  the  destinies  ! 
The  minor  of  Thy  loftier  strain, 
Our  hearts  shall  breathe  the  old  refrain, 
Thy  will  be  done  ! 


A   WORD    FOR   THE   HOUR 

THE  firmament  breaks  up.     In  black  eclipse 
Light  after  light  goes  out.     One  evil  star, 
Luridly  glaring  through  the  smoke  of  war, 
As  in  the  dream  of  the  Apocalypse, 
Drags  others  down.     Let  us   not  weakly 

weep 

Nor  rashly  threaten.     Give  us  grace  to  keep 
Our  faith  and  patience  ;   wherefore  should 

we  leap 

On  one  hand  into  fratricidal  fight, 
Or,  on  the  other,  yield  eternal  right, 
Frame  lies  of  law,  and  good  and  ill  con 
found  ? 

What  fear  we  ?    Safe  on  freedom's  vantage- 
ground 

Our  feet  are  planted  :  let  us  there  remain 
In  unre vengeful  calm,  no  means  untried 
Which  truth    can  sanction,  no  just  claim 

denied, 

The  sad  spectators  of  a  suicide  ! 
They  break  the  links  of  Union  :  shall  we 

light 

The  fires  of  hell  to  weld  anew  the  chain 
On  that  red  anvil  where  each  blow  is  pain  ? 
Draw  we  not  even  now  a  freer  breath, 
As  from  our  shoulders  falls  a  load  of  death 
Loathsome  as  that  the  Tuscan's  victim  bore 
When  keen  with  life  to  a  dead  horror  bound? 
Why  take  we  up  the  accursed  thing  again  ? 
Pity,  forgive,  but  urge  them  back  no  more 
Who,  drunk  with  passion,  flaunt  disunion's 

rag 

With  its  vile  reptile-blazon.     Let  us  press 
The  golden  cluster  on  our  brave  old  flag 
In  closer  union,  and,  if  numbering  less, 
Brighter  shall  shine  the  stars  which  still 


334 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


"EIN    FESTE    BURG    1ST   UNSER 
GOTT  " 

LUTHER'S   HYMN 

WE  wait  beneath  the  furnace-blast 

The  pangs  of  transformation  ; 
Not  painlessly  doth  God  recast 
And  mould  anew  the  nation. 
Hot  burns  the  lire 
Where  wrongs  expire  ; 
Nor  spares  the  hand 
That  from  the  land 
Uproots  the  ancient  evil. 

The  hand-breadth  cloud  the  sages  feared 

Its  bloody  rain  is  dropping  ; 
The  poison  plant  the  fathers  spared 
All  else  is  overtopping. 
East,  West,  South,  North, 
It  curses  the  earth  ; 
All  justice  dies, 
And  fraud  and  lies 
Live  only  in  its  shadow. 

What  gives  the  wheat-field  blades  of  steel  ? 

What  points  the  rebel  cannon  ? 
What  sets  the  roaring  rabble's  heel 
On  the  old  star-spangled  pennon  ? 
What  breaks  the  oath 
Of  the  men  o'  the  South  ? 
What  whets  the  knife 
For  the  Union's  life  ?  — 
Hark  to  the  answer  :  Slavery  J 

fhen  waste  no  blows  on  lesser  foes 

In  strife  unworthy  freemen. 
God  lifts  to-day  the  veil,  and  shows 
The  features  of  the  demon  ! 
O  North  and  South, 
Its  victims  both, 
Can  ye  not  cry, 
"  Let  slavery  die  !  " 
And  union  find  in  freedom  ? 

What  though  the  cast-out  spirit  tear 

The  nation  in  his  going  ? 
We  who  have  shared  the  guilt  must  share 
The  pang  of  his  o'erthrowing  ! 
Whate'er  the  loss, 
Whate'er  the  cross, 
Shall  they  complain 
Of  present  pain 
Who  trust  in  God's  hereafter  ? 


For  who  that  leans  on  His  right  arm 

Was  ever  yet  forsaken  ? 
What  righteous  cause  can  suffer  harm 
If  He  its  part  has  taken  ? 
Though  wild  and  loud, 
And  dark  the  cloud, 
Behind  its  folds 
His  hand  upholds 
The  calm  sky  of  to-morrow  ! 

Above  the  maddening  cry  for  blood, 

Above  the  wild  war-drumming, 
Let  Freedom's  voice  be  heard,  with  good 
The  evil  overcoming. 
Give  prayer  and  purse 
To  stay  the  Curse 
Whose  wrong  we  share, 
Whose  shame  we  bear, 
Whose  end  shall  gladden  Heaven ! 

In  vain  the  bells  of  war  shall  ring 

Of  triumphs  and  revenges, 
While  still  is  spared  the  evil  thing 
That  severs  and  estranges. 
But  blest  the  ear 
That  yet  shall  hear 
The  jubilant  bell 
That  rings  the  knell 
Of  Slavery  forever  ! 

Then  let  the  selfish  lip  be  dumb, 

And  hushed  the  breath  of  sighing  ; 
Before  the  joy  of  peace  must  come 
The  pains  of  purifying. 
God  give  us  grace 
Each  in  his  place 
To  bear  his  lot, 
And,  murmuring  not, 
Endure  and  wait  and  labor  ! 


TO   JOHN    C.    FREMONT 

On  the  31st  of  August,  1801,  General  Fre* 
mont,  then  in  charge  of  the  Western  Depart 
ment,  issued  a  proclamation  which  contained  a 
clause,  famous  as  the  first  announcement  of 
emancipation:  "  The  property,"  it  declared, 
"  real  and  personal,  of  all  persons  in  the  IState 
of  Missouri,  who  shall  take  up  arms  against  the 
United  States,  or  who  shall  be  directly  proven 
to  have  taken  active  part  with  their  enemies  in 
the  field,  is  declared  to  be  confiscated  to  the 
public  use  ;  and  their  slaves,  if  any  they  have, 
are  hereby  declared  free  men."  Mr.  Lincoln 


THE   WATCHERS 


335 


regarded  the  proclamation  as  premature  and 
countermanded  it,  after  vainly  endeavoring  to 
persuade  Fre'morit  of  his  own  motion  to  re 
voke  it. 

THY  error,  Fremont,  simply  was  to  act 
A  brave  man's  part,  without  the  statesman's 

tact, 

And,  taking  counsel  but  of  common  sense, 
To  strike  at  cause  as  well  as  consequence. 
Oh,  never  yet  since  Roland  wound  his  horn 
At  Roncesvalles,  has  a  blast  been  blown 
Far-heard,  wide-echoed,  startling  as  thine 

own, 

Heard  from  the  van  of  freedom's  hope  for 
lorn  ! 

It  had  been  safer,  doubtless,  for  the  time, 
To  flatter  treason,  and  avoid  offence 
To   that    Dark    Power   whose    underlying 

crime 

Heaves  upward  its  perpetual  turbulence. 
But  if  thine  be  the  fate  of  all  who  break 
The  ground  for  truth's  seed,  or  forerun 

their  years 
Till  lost  in  distance,  or  with  stout  hearts 

make 

A  lane  for  freedom  through  the  level  spears, 
Still  take  thou  courage  !  God  has  spoken 

through  thee, 

Irrevocable,  the  mighty  words,  Be  free  ! 
The  land  shakes  with  them,  and  the  slave's 

dull  ear 
Turns  from  the  rice-swamp   stealthily  to 

hear. 

Who  would  recall  them  now  must  first  ar 
rest 
The  winds  that  blow  down  from  the  free 

Northwest, 

Ruffling  the  Gulf  ;  or  like  a  scroll  roll  back 
The  Mississippi  to  its  upper  springs. 
Such  words  fulfil  their  prophecy,  and  lack 
But  the  full  time  to  harden  into  things. 


THE   WATCHERS 

BESIDE  a  stricken  field  I  stood  ; 
On  the  torn  turf,  on  grass  and  wood, 
Hung  heavily  the  dew  of  blood. 

Still  in  their  fresh  mounds  lay  the  slain, 
But  all  the  air  was  quick  with  pain 
And  gusty  sighs  and  tearful  rain. 


Two  angels,  each  with  drooping  head 
And  folded  wings  and  noiseless  tread, 
Watched  by  that  valley  of  the  dead. 

The  one,  with  forehead  saintly  bland 
And  lips  of  blessing,  not  command, 
Leaned,  weeping,  on  her  olive  wand. 

The  other's  brows  were  scarred  and  knit, 
His  restless  eyes  were  watch-fires  lit, 
His  hands  for  battle-gauntlets  fit. 

"  How    long  ! "  —  I  knew    the   voice    oi 

Peace,  — 

"  Is  there  no  respite  ?  no  release  ? 
When  shall  the  hopeless  quarrel  cease  ? 

"  O  Lord,  how  long  !     One  human  soul 
Is  more  than  any  parchment  scroll, 
Or  any  flag  thy  winds  unroll. 

"  What  price  was  Ellsworth's,  young  and 

brave  ? 

How  weigh  the  gift  that  Lyon  gave, 
Or  count  the  cost  of  Winthrop's  grave  ? 

"  O  brother  !  if  thine  eye  can  see, 
Tell  how  and  when  the  end  shall  be, 
What  hope  remains  for  thee  and  me." 

Then  Freedom  sternly  said  :  "  I  shun 
No  strife  nor  pang  beneath  the  sun, 
When  human  rights  are  staked  and  won. 

"  I  knelt  with  Ziska's  hunted  flock, 
I  watched  in  Toussaint's  cell  of  rock, 
I  walked  with  Sidney  to  the  block. 

"  The  moor  of  Marston  felt  my  tread, 
Through  Jersey  snows  the  march  I  led, 
My  voice  Magenta's  charges  sped. 

"  But  now,  through  weary  day  and  night, 
I  watch  a  vague  and  aimless  fight 
For  leave  to  strike  one  blow  aright. 

"  On  either  side  my  foe  they  own  : 

One  guards  through  love  his  ghastly  throne. 

And  one  through  fear  to  reverence  grown. 

"  Why  wait  we  longer,  mocked,  betrayed, 

By  open  foes,  or  those  afraid 

To  speed  thy  coming  through  my  aid  ? 


ANTI-SLAVERY    POEMS 


"  Why  watch  to  see  who  win  or  fall  ? 

I  shake  the  dust  against  them  all, 

I  leave  them  to  their  senseless  brawl." 

"  Nay,"  Peace  implored  :  "  yet  longer  wait ; 
The  doom  is  near,  the  stake  is  great  : 
God  knoweth  if  it  be  too  late. 

'  Still  wait  and  watch  ;  the  way  prepare 
Where  I  with  folded  wings  of  prayer 
May  follow,  weaponless  and  bare." 

"  Too  late  !  "  the  stern,  sad  voice  replied, 
"  Too  late  !  "  its  mournful  echo  sighed 
In  low  lament  the  answer  died. 

A  rustling  as  of  wings  in  flight, 

An  upward  gleam  of  lessening  white, 

So  passed  the  vision,  sound  and  sight. 

But  round  me,  like  a  silver  bell 
Hung  down  the  listening  sky  to  tell 
Of  holy  help,  a  sweet  voice  fell. 

"  Still  hope  and  trust,"  it  sang  ;  "the  rod 
Must  fall,  the  wine-press  must  be  trod, 
But  all  is  possible  with  God  !  " 


TO    ENGLISHMEN 

Written  when,  in  the  stress  of  our  terrible 
war,  the  English  ruling1  class,  with  few  excep 
tions,  were  either  coldly  indifferent  or  hostile  to 
the  party  of  freedom.  Their  attitude  was  illus 
trated  by  caricatures  of  America,  among1  which 
was  one  of  a  slaveholder  and  cowhide,  with 
the  motto,  "  Have  n't  I  a  right  to  wallop  my 
ligger  ?  " 

STou  flung  your  taunt  across  the  wave  ; 

We  bore  it  as  became  us, 
Well  knowing  that  the  fettered  slave 
Left  friendly  lips  no  option  save 

To  pity  or  to  blame  us. 

You   scoffed   our   plea.       "  Mere   lack   of 
will, 

Not  lack  of  power,"  you  told  us  : 
We  showed  our  free-state  records  ;  still 
^Tou  mocked,  confounding  good  and  ill, 

Slave-haters  and  slaveholders. 

We  struck  at  Slavery  ;  to  the  verge 
Of  power  and  means  we  checked  it ; 


Lo  !  —  presto,    change  !     its    claims    you 

urge, 

Send  greetings  to  it  o'er  the  surge, 
And  comfort  and  protect  it. 

But  yesterday  you  scarce  could  shake, 

In  slave-abhorring  rigor, 
Our  Northern  palms  for  conscience'  sake  ! 
To-day  you  clasp  the  hands  that  ache 

With  "  walloping  the  nigger  !  " 

O  Englishmen  !  —  in  hope  and  creed, 
In  blood  and  tongue  our  brothers  ! 

We  too  are  heirs  of  Runnymede  ; 

And   Shakespeare's  fame    and   Cromwell's; 

deed 
Are  not  alone  our  mother's. 

"  Thicker  than  water,"  in  one  rill 

Through  centuries  of  story 
Our  Saxon  blood  has  flowed,  and  still 
WTe  share  with  you  its  good  and  ill, 

The  shadow  and  the  glory. 

Joint  heirs  and  kinfolk,  leagues  of  wave 

Nor  length  of  years  can  part  us  : 
Your  right  is  ours  to  shrine  and  grave, 
The  common  freehold  of  the  brave, 
The  gift  of  saints  and  martyrs. 

Our  very  sins  and  follies  teach 

Our  kindred  frail  and  human  : 
We  carp  at  faults  with  bitter  speech, 
The  while,  for  one  unshared  by  each, 
We  have  a  score  in  common. 

We  bowed  the  heart,  if  not  the  knee, 
To  England's  Queen,  God  bless  her  ! 

We   praised  you    when   your    slaves  wen' 
free: 

We  seek  to  unchain  ours.     Will  ye 
Join  hands  with  the  oppressor  ? 

And  is  it  Christian  England  cheers 

The  bruiser,  not  the  bruised  ? 
And  must  she  run,  despite  the  tears 
And  prayers  of  eighteen  hundred  years, 
Amuck  in  Slavery's  crusade  ? 

Oh,  black  disgrace  !     Oh,  shame  and  loss 
Too  deep  for  tongue  to  phrase  on  ! 

Tear  from  your  flag  its  holy  cross, 

And  in  your  van  of  battle  toss 
The  pirate's  skuJ'-boiie  blazon  ! 


AT   PORT   ROYAL 


337 


MITHRIDATES    AT    CHIOS 

It  is  recorded  that  the  Chians,  when  subju 
gated  by  Mithridates  of  Cappadocia,  were  de 
livered  up  to  their  own  slaves,  to  be  carried 
away  captive  to  Colchis.  Athenseus  considers 
this  a  just  punishment  for  their  wickedness  in 
first  introducing-  the  slave-trade  into  Greece. 
From  this  ancient  villainy  of  the  Chians  the 
proverb  arose,  "  The  Chian  hath  bought  him 
self  a  master." 

KNOW'ST  them,  O  slave-cursed  land  ! 
How,  when  the  Chian's  cup  of  guilt 
Was  full  to  overflow,  there  came 
God's  justice  in  the  sword  of  flame 
That,  red  with  slaughter  to  its  hilt, 
Blazed  in  the  Cappadocian  victor's  hand  ? 

The  heavens  are  still  and  far  ; 

But,  not  unheard  of  awful  Jove, 
The  sighing  of  the  island  slave 
Was  answered,  when  the  ^Egean  wave 

The  keels  of  Mithridates  clove, 
And  the  vines  shrivelled  in  the  breath  of 


"  Robbers  of  Chios  !  hark," 
The  victor  cried,  "  to  Heaven's  decree  ! 
Pluck  your  last  cluster  from  the  vine, 
Drain  your  last  cup  of  Chian  wine  ; 
Slaves  of  your  slaves,,  your  doom  shall 

be, 
In  Colchian  mines  by  Phasis  rolling  dark." 


Then  rose  the  long  lament 
From  the  hoar  sea-god's  dusky  caves  : 
The  priestess  rent  her  hair  and  cried, 
"  Woe  !  woe  !    The  gods  are  sleepless- 

eyed  !  " 
And,  chained  and  scourged,  the  slaves  of 

slaves, 
lords  of  Chios  into  exile  went. 


"The  gods  at  last  pay  well," 
So  Hellas  sang  her  taunting  song, 
"  The  fisher  in  his  net  is  caught, 
The  Chian  hath  his  master  bought  ;  " 
And  isle  from  isle,  with  laughter  long, 
Took  up  and  sped  the  mocking  parable. 

Once  more  the  slow,  dumb  years 
Bring  their  avenging  cycle  round, 

And,  more  than  Hellas  taught  of  old, 
Our  wiser  lesson  shall  be  told. 


Of  slaves  uprising,  freedom-crowned, 
To  break,  not  wield,  the  scourge  wet  with 
their  blood  and  tears. 


AT   PORT   ROYAL 


In  November,  1861,  a  Union  force  undei 
Commodore  Dupont  and  General  Sherman  cap 
tured  Port  Royal,  and  from  this  point  as  a 
basis  of  operations  the  neighboring  islands  be 
tween  Charleston  and  Savannah  were  taken 
possession  of.  The  early  occupation  of  this 
district,  where  the  negro  population  was  greatly 
in  excess  of  the  white,  gave  an  opportunity 
which  was  at  once  seized  upon,  of  practically 
emancipating  the  slaves  and  of  beginning  that 
work  of  civilization  which  was  accepted  as  the 
grave  responsibility  of  those  who  had  labored 
for  freedom. 

THE  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land, 

The  ship-lights  on  the  sea  ; 
The  night-wind  smooths  with  drifting  sand 

Our  track  on  lone  Tybee. 

At  last  our  grating  keels  outslide, 
Our  good  boats  forward  swing  ; 

And  while  we  ride  the  land-locked  tide, 
Our  negroes  row  and  sing. 

For  dear  the  bondman  holds  his  gifts 

Of  music  and  of  song  : 
The  gold  that  kindly  Nature  sifts 

Among  his  sands  of  wrong  ; 

The  power  to  make  his  toiling  days 
And  poor  home-comforts  please  ; 

The  quaint  relief  of  mirth  that  plays 
With  sorrow's  minor  keys. 

Another  glow  than  sunset's  fire 

Has  filled  the  west  with  light, 
Where  field  and  garner,  barn  and  byres 

Are  blazing  through  the  night. 

The  land  is  wild  with  fear  and  hate, 

The  rout  runs  mad  and  fast  ; 
From  hand  to  hand,  from  gate  to  gate 

The  flaming  brand  is  passed. 

The  lurid  glow  falls  strong  across 

Dark  faces  broad  with  smiles  : 
Not  theirs  the  terror,  hate,  and  loss 

That  fire  yon  blazing  piles. 


338 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


With  oar-strokes  timing  to  their  song, 
They  weave  in  simple  lays 

The  pathos  of  remembered  wrong, 
The  hope  of  better  clays,  — 

The  triumph-note  that  Miriam  sung, 

The  joy  of  uncaged  birds  : 
Softening  with  Afric's  mellow  tongue 

Their  broken  Saxon  words. 


SONG  OF  THE  NEGRO  BOATMEN 

Oh,  praise  an'  tanks  !     De  Lord  he  come 

To  set  de  people  free  ; 
An'  massa  tink  it  day  ob  doom, 

An'  we  ob  jubilee. 
De  Lord  dat  heap  de  Red  Sea  waves 

He  jus'  as  'trong  as  den  ; 
He  say  de  word  :  we  las'  night  slaves  ; 
To-day,  de  Lord's  free  men. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
Oh  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

Ole  massa  on  he  trabbels  gone  ; 

He  leaf  de  land  behind  : 
De  Lord's  breff  blow  him  furder  on, 

Like  corn-shuck  in  de  wind. 
We  own  de  hoe,  we  own  de  plough, 

We  own  de  hands  dat  hold  ; 
We  sell  de  pig,  we  sell  de  cow, 
But  nebber  chile  be  sold. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
Oh  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

We  pray  de  Lord  :  he  gib  us  signs 

Dat  some  day  we  be  free  ; 
De  norf-wind  tell  it  to  de  pines, 

De  wild-duck  to  de  sea  ; 
We  tink  it  when  de  church-bell  ring, 

We  dream  it  in  de  dream  ; 
De  rice-bird  mean  it  when  he  sing, 
De  eagle  when  he  scream. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

We  '11  hab  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
Oh  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 

flfe  know  de  promise  nebber  fail, 
An'  nebber  lie  de  word  ; 


So,  like  de  'postles  in  de  jail, 

We  waited  for  de  Lord  : 
An'  now  he  open  ebery  door, 

An'  trow  away  de  key  ; 
He  tink  we  lub  him  so  before, 
We  lub  him  better  free. 

De  yam  will  grow,  de  cotton  blow, 

He  '11  gib  de  rice  an'  corn  ; 
Oh  nebber  you  fear,  if  nebber  you  hear 
De  driver  blow  his  horn  ! 


So  sing  our  dusky  gondoliers  ; 

And  with  a  secret  pain, 
And  smiles  that  seem  akin  to  tears, 

We  hear  the  wild  refrain. 

We  dare  not  share  the  negro's  trust, 

Nor  yet  his  hope  deny  ; 
We  only  know  that  God  is  just, 

And  every  wrong  shall  die. 

Rude  seems  the  song  ;  each  swarthy  face; 

Flame-lighted,  ruder  still  : 
We  start  to  think  that  hapless  race 

Must  shape  our  good  or  ill  ; 

That  laws  of  changeless  justice  bind 

Oppressor  with  oppressed  ; 
And,  close  as  sin  and  suffering  joined, 

We  march  to  Fate  abreast. 

Sing  on,  poor  hearts  !  your  chant  shall  be 

Our  sign  of  blight  or  bloom, 
The  Vala-song  of  Liberty, 

Or  death-rune  of  our  doom  ! 


ASTR^EA   AT   THE    CAPITOL 

ABOLITION    OF    SLAVERY     IN     THE    DIS 
TRICT    OF    COLUMBIA,    1 862 

[The  reference  in  the  fourth  stanza  is  to  Dr. 
Reuben  Crandall  of  Washing-ton,  who,  in  1834, 
was  arrested  and  confined  in  the  old  city  prison 
until  his  health  was  destroyed.  His  crime  was 
in  lending-  to  a  brother  physician  Whittier's 
pamphlet  Justice  and  Exjjediency.] 

WHEN  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave 
Above  the  nation's  council-hall, 
I  heard  beneath  its  marble  wall 

The  clanking  fetters  of  the  slave  ! 


THE   BATTLE   AUTUMN    OF    1862 


339 


In  the  foul  market-place  I  stood, 
And  saw  the  Christian  mother  sold, 
And  childhood  with  its  locks  of  gold, 

Blue-eyed  and  fair  with  Saxon  blood. 

I  shut  my  eyes,  I  held  my  breath, 

And,  smothering   down    the  wrath   and 

shame 
That  set  my  Northern  blood  aflame, 

Stood  silent,  —  where  to  speak  was  death. 

Beside  me  gloomed  the  prison-cell 
Where  wasted  one  in  slow  decline 
For  uttering  simple  words  of  mine, 

And  loving  freedom  all  too  well. 

The  flag  that  floated  from  the  dome 
Flapped  menace  in  the  morning  air  ; 
I  stood  a  perilled  stranger  where 

The  human  broker  made  his  home. 

For  crime  was  virtue  :  Gown  and  Sword 
And  Law  their  threefold  sanction  gave, 
And  to  the  quarry  of  the  slave 

Went  hawking  with  our  symbol-bird. 

On  the  oppressor's  side  was  power  ; 

And  yet  I  knew  that  every  wrong, 

However  old,  however  strong, 
But  waited  God's  avenging  hour. 

I  knew  that  truth  would  crush  the  lie,  — 
Somehow,  some  time,  the  end  would  be  ; 
Yet  scarcely  dared  I  hope  to  see 

The  triumph  with  my  mortal  eye. 

But  now  I  see  it !     In  the  sun 

A  free  flag  floats  from  yonder  dome, 
And  at  the  nation's  hearth  and  home 

The  justice  long  delayed  is  done. 

Kot  as  we  hoped,  in  calm  of  prayer, 
The  message  of  deliverance  comes, 
But  heralded  by  roll  of  drums 

On  waves  of  battle-troubled  air  ! 

Midst  sounds  that  madden  and  appall, 
The    song   that    Bethlehem's   shepherds 

knew  ! 
The  harp  of  David  melting  through 

The  demon-agonies  of  Saul  ! 

Not  as  we  hoped  ;  but  what  are  we  ? 
Above  our  broken  dreams  and  plans 


God  lays,  with  wiser  hand  than  man's, 
The  corner-stones  of  liberty. 

I  cavil  not  with  Him  :  the  voice 
That  freedom's  blessed  gospel  tells 
Is  sweet  to  me  as  silver  bells, 

Rejoicing  !  yea,  I  will  rejoice  I 

Dear  friends  still  toiling  in  the  sun  ; 
Ye  dearer  ones  who,  gone  before, 
Are  watching  from  the  eternal  shore 

The  slow  work  by  your  hands  begun, 

Rejoice  with  me  !     The  chastening  rod 
Blossoms  with  love  ;  the  furnace  heat 
Grows  cool  beneath  His  blessed  feet 

Whose  form  is  as  the  Son  of  God  ! 

Rejoice  !     Our  Marah's  bitter  springs 
Are  sweetened  ;  on  our  ground  of  grief 
Rise  day  by  day  in  strong  relief 

The  prophecies  of  better  things. 

Rejoice  in  hope  !     The  day  and  night 
Are  one  with  God,  and  one  with  them 
Who  see  by  faith  the  cloudy  hem 

Of  Judgment  fringed  with  Mercy's  light  ! 


THE  BATTLE  AUTUMN    OF  1862 

THE  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly, 

The  charging  trumpets  blow  ; 
Yet  rolls  no  thunder  in  the  sky, 

No  earthquake  strives  below. 

And,  calm  and  patient,  Nature  keeps 

Her  ancient  promise  well, 
Though   o'er    her    bloom    and    greenness 
sweeps 

The  battle's  breath  of  hell. 

And  still  she  walks  in  golden  hours 
Through  harvest-happy  farms, 

And  still  she  wears  ht>r  fruits  and  flowers 
Like  jewels  on  her  arms. 

What  mean  the  gladness  of  the  plain, 

This  joy  of  eve  and  morn, 
The  mirth  that  shakes  the  beard  of  grain 

And  yellow  locks  of  corn  ? 

Ah  !  eyes  may  well  be  full  of  tears, 
And  hearts  with  hate  are  hot ; 


340 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


But  even-paced  come  round  the  years, 
And  Nature  changes  not. 

She  meets  with  smiles  our  bitter  grief, 
With  songs  our  groans  of  pain  ; 

She  mocks  with  tint  of  flower  and  leaf 
The  war-field's  crimson  stain. 

Still,  in  the  cannon's  pause,  we  hear 
Her  sweet  thanksgiving-psalm  ; 

Too  near  to  God  for  doubt  or  fear, 
She  shares  the  eternal  calm. 

She  knows  the  seed  lies  safe  below 
The  fires  that  blast  and  burn  ; 

For  all  the  tears  of  blood  we  sow 
She  waits  the  rich  return. 

She  sees  with  clearer  eye  than  ours 
The  good  of  suffering  born,  — 

The  hearts  that  blossom  like  her  flowers, 
And  ripen  like  her  corn. 

Oh,  give  to  us,  in  times  like  these, 

The  vision  of  her  eyes  ; 
And  make  her  fields  and  fruited  trees 

Our  golden  prophecies ! 

Oh,  give  to  us  her  finer  ear  ! 

Above  this  stormy  din, 
We  too  would  hear  the  bells  of  cheer 

Ring  peace  and  freedom  in. 


HYMN 

SUNG  AT   CHRISTMAS    BY   THE   SCHOLARS 

OF  ST.  HELENA'S  ISLAND,  s.  c. 

[Written  at  the  request  of  the  teacher,  Miss 
Charlotte  Forten,  now  Mrs.  Grimke".] 

OH,  none  in  all  the  world  before 

Were  ever  glad  as  we  ! 
We're  free  on  Carolina's  shore, 

We  're  all  at  home  and  free. 

Thou  Friend  and  Helper  of  the  poor, 

Who  suffered  for  our  sake, 
To  open  every  prison  door, 

And  every  yoke  to  break  ! 

Bend  low  Thy  pitying  face  and  mild, 
And  help  us  sing  and  pray  ; 

The  hand  that  blessed  the  little  child, 
Upon  our  foreheads  lay. 


We  hear  nc  more  the  driver's  horn, 
No  more  the  whip  we  fear, 

This  holy  day  that  saw  Thee  born 
Was  never  half  so  dear. 

The  very  oaks  are  greener  clad, 
The  waters  brighter  smile  ; 

Oh,  never  shone  a  day  so  glad 
On  sweet  St.  Helen's  Isle. 

We  praise  Thee  in  our  songs  to-day, 
To  Thee  in  prayer  we  call, 

Make  swift  the  feet  and  straight  the 
Of  freedom  unto  all. 

Come  once  again,  O  blessed  Lord  ! 

Come  walking  on  the  sea  ! 
And  let  the  mainlands  hear  the  word 

That  sets  the  island  free  ! 


THE    PROCLAMATION 

President  Lincoln's  proclamation  of  emanci 
pation  was  issued  January  1,  1863. 

SAINT  PATRICK,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the 

herds 
Of  Ballymena,  wakened  with  thase  words  : 

"Arise,  and  flee 
Out  from  the  land  of  bondage,  and  be  free  !  " 

Glad  as  a  soul  in  pain,  who  hears   from 

heaven 
The  angels  singing  of  his  sins  forgiven, 

And,  wondering,  sees 
His  prison  opening  to  their  golden  keys, 

He  rose  a  man  who  laid  him  down  a  slave, 
Shook  from  his  locks  the  ashes  of  the  grave- 

And  outward  trod 
Into  the  glorious  liberty  of  God. 

He  cast  the  symbols  of  his  shame  away  ; 
And,  passing  where  the   sleeping  Milcho 

lay, 

Though  back  and  limb 

Smarted  with  wrong,  he  prayed,  "  God  par- 
don  him  !  " 

So  went  he  forth ;   but  in  God's  time  he 

came 
To  light  on  Uilline's  hills  a  holy  flame  ; 

And,  dying,  gave 
The  land  a  saint  that  lost  him  as  a  slave. 


ANNIVERSARY   POEM 


341 


0  dark,  sad  millions,  patiently  and  dumb 
Waiting  for  God,  your   hour   at  last  has 

come, 

And  freedom's  song 

Breaks  the  long  silence  of  your  night  of 
wrong  ! 

Arise  and  flee  !  shake  off  the  vile  restraint 
Of  ages  ;   but,  like  Ballymena's  saint, 

The  oppressor  spare, 
Heap  only  on  his  head  the  coals  of  prayer. 

Go  forth,  like  him  !  like  him  return  again, 
To  bless  the  land  whereon  in  bitter  pain 

Ye  toiled  at  first, 

And  heal  with  freedom  what  your  slavery 
cursed. 

ANNIVERSARY   POEM 

E  aad  before  the  Alumni  of  the  Friends' 
Ye£  rly  Meeting  School,  at  the  Annual  Meeting 
at  Newport,  R.  I.,  15th  Cth  mo.,  1863. 

ONCE  more,  dear  friends,  you  meet  beneath 

A  clouded  sky  : 

Not  yet  the  sword  has  found  its  sheath, 
And  on  the  sweet  spring  airs  the  breath 

Of  war  floats  by. 

Yet  trouble  springs  not  from  the  ground, 

Nor  pain  from  chance  ; 
The  Eternal  order  circles  round, 
And  wave  and  storm  find  mete  and  bound 

In  Providence. 

Full  long  our  feet  the  flowery  ways 

Of  peace  have  trod, 

Content  with  creed  and  garb  and  phrase  : 
A  harder  path  in  earlier  days 

Led  up  to  God. 

Too  cheaply  truths,  once  purchased  dear, 

Are  made  our  own  ; 
Too  long  the  world  has  smiled  to  hear 
Our  boast  of  full  corn  in  the  ear 

By  others  sown  ; 

To  see  us  stir  the  martyr  fires 

Of  long  ago, 

And  wrap  our  satisfied  desires 
In  the  singed  mantles  that  our  sires 

E  ave  dropped  below. 


But  now  the  cross  our  worthies  bore 

On  us  is  laid  ; 

Profession's  quiet  sleep  is  o'er, 
And  in  the  scale  of  truth  once  more 

Our  faith  is  weighed. 

The  cry  of  innocent  blood  at  last 

Is  calling  down 

An  answer  in  the  whirlwind-blast, 
The  thunder  and  the  shadow  cast 

From  Heaven's  dark  frown. 

The  land  is  red  with  judgments.     Who 

Stands  guiltless  forth  ? 
Have  we  been  faithful  as  we  knew, 
To  God  and  to  our  brother  true, 

To  Heaven  and  Earth  ? 

How  faint,  through  din  of  merchandise 

And  count  of  gain, 

Have  seemed  to  us  the  captive's  cries ! 
How  far  away  the  tears  and  sighs 

Of  souls  in  pain  ! 

This  day  the  fearful  reckoning  comes 

To  each  and  all ; 

We  hear  amidst  our  peaceful  homes 
The  summons  of  the  conscript  drums, 

The  bugle's  call. 

Our  path  is  plain  ;  the  war-net  draws 

Round  us  in  vain, 

While,  faithful  to  the  Higher  Cause, 
We  keep  our  fealty  to  the  laws 

Through  patient  pain. 

The  levelled  gun,  the  battle-brand, 

We  may  not  take  : 
But,  calmly  loyal,  we  can  stand 
And  suffer  with  our  suffering  land 

For  conscience'  sake. 

Why  ask  for  ease  where  all  is  pain  ? 

Shall  we  alone 

Be  left  to  add  our  gain  to  gain, 
When  over  Armageddon's  plain 

The  trump  is  blown  ? 

To  suffer  well  is  well  to  serve  ; 

Safe  in  our  Lord 
The  rigid  lines  of  law  shall  curve 
To  spare  us  ;  from  our  heads  shall  swerve 

Its  smiting  sword. 


342 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


And  light  is  mingled  with  the  gloom, 

And  joy  with  grief  ; 
Divinest  compensations  come, 
Through  thorns  of  judgment  mercies  bloom 

In  sweet  relief. 

Thanks  for  our  privilege  to  bless, 

By  word  and  deed, 
The  widow  in  her  keen  distress, 
The  childless  and  the  fatherless, 

The  hearts  that  bleed  1 

For  fields  of  duty,  opening  wide, 

Where  all  our  powers 
Are  tasked  the  eager  steps  to  guide 
Of  millions  on  a  path  untried  : 

The  slave  is  ours  ! 

Ours  by  traditions  dear  and  old, 

Which  make  the  race 
Our  wards  to  cherish  and  uphold, 
And  cast  their  freedom  in  the  mould 

Of  Christian  grace. 

And  we  may  tread  the  sick-bed  floors 

Where  strong  men  pine, 
And,  down  the  groaning  corridors, 
Pour  freely  from  our  liberal  stores 

The  oil  and  wine. 

Who  murmurs  that  in  these  dark  days 

His  lot  is  cast  ? 

God's  hand  within  the  shadow  lays 
The  stones  whereon  His  gates  of  praise 

Shall  rise  at  last. 

Turn  and  o'erturn,  O  outstretched  Hand  ! 

Nor  stint,  nor  stay  ; 

The  years  have  never  dropped  their  sand 
On  mortal  issue  vast  and  grand 

As  ours  to-day. 

Already,  on  the  sable  ground 

Of  man's  despair 

Is  Freedom's  glorious  picture  found, 
With  all  its  dusky  hands  unbound 

Upraised  in  prayer. 

Oh,  small  shall  seem  all  sacrifice 

And  pain  and  loss, 

When  God  shall  wipe  the  weeping  eyes, 
For  suffering  give  the  victor's  prize, 

The  crown  for  cross  ! 


BARBARA   FRIETCHIE 

This  poem  was  written  in  strict  conformity 
to  the  account  of  the  incident  as  I  had  it  from 
respectable  and  trustworthy  sources.  It  haa 
since  been  the  subject  of  a  good  deal  of  con 
flicting-  testimony,  and  the  story  was  probably 
incorrect  in  some  of  its  details.  It  is  admitted 
by  all  that  Barbara  Frietchie  was  no  myth,  but 
a  worthy  and  highly  esteemed  gentlewoman, 
intensely  loyal  and  a  hater  of  the  Slavery  Re 
bellion,  holding  her  Union  flag  sacred  and 
keeping  it  with  her  Bible ;  that  when  the  Con 
federates  halted  before  her  house,  and  entered 
her  dooryard,  she  denounced  them  in  vigorous 
language,  shook  her  cane  in  their  faces,  and 
drove  them  out ;  and  when  General  Burnside's 
troops  followed  close  upon  Jackson's,  she  waved 
her  flag  and  cheered  them.  It  is  stated  that 
May  Quantrell,  a  brave  and  loyal  lady  in  an 
other  part  of  the  city,  did  wave  her  flag  in 
sight  of  the  Confederates.  It  is  possible  that 
there  has  been  a  blending  of  the  two  incidents. 

UP  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn, 
Clear  in  the  cool  September  morn, 

The  clustered  spires  of  Frederick  stand 
Green-walled  by  the  hills  of  Maryland. 

Round  about  them  orchards  sweep, 
Apple  and  peach  tree  fruited  deep, 

Fair  as  the  garden  of  the  Lord 

To  the  eyes  of  the  famished  rebel  horde, 

On  that  pleasant  morn  of  the  early  tall 
When   Lee  marched   over  the   mountain 
wall ; 

Over  the  mountains  winding  down, 
Horse  and  foot,  into  Frederick  town. 

Forty  flags  with  their  silver  stars, 
Forty  flags  with  their  crimson  bars, 

Flapped  in  the  morning  wind  :  the  sun 
0^  noon  looked  down,  and  saw  not  one. 

Up  rose  old  Barbara  Frietchie  then, 
Bowed  with  her  fourscore  years  and  ten  ; 

Bravest  of  all  in  Frederick  town, 

She  took  up  the  flag  the  men  hauled  down 


WHAT   THE   BIRDS    SAID 


343 


In  her  attic  window  the  staff  she  set, 
I'o  show  that  one  heart  was  loyal  yet. 

Up  the  street  came  the  rebel  tread, 
Stonewall  Jackson  riding  ahead. 

Under  his  slouched  hat  left  and  right 
He  glanced  ;  the  old  flag  met  his  sight. 

"  Halt !  "  —  the   dust-brown   ranks   stood 

fast. 
"Fire  !  "  —  out  blazed  the  rifle-blast. 

It  shivered  the  window,  pane  and  sash  ; 
It  rent  the  banner  with  seam  and  gash. 

Quick,  as  it  fell,  from  the  broken  staff 
Dame  Barbara  snatched  the  silken  scarf. 

She  leaned  far  out  on  the  window-sill, 
And  shook  it  forth  with  a  royal  will. 

"  Shoot,  if  you  must,  this  old  gray  head, 
But  spare  your  country's  flag,"  she  said. 

A  shade  of  sadness,  a  blush  of  shame, 
Over  the  face  of  the  leader  came  ; 

The  nobler  nature  within  him  stirred 
To  life  at  that  woman's  deed  and  word  ; 

"  Who  touches  a  hair  of  yon  gray  head 
Dies  like  a  dog  !     March  on  ! "  he  said. 

All  day  long  through  Frederick  street 
Sounded  the  tread  of  marching  feet  : 

All  day  long  that  free  flag  tost 
Over  the  heads  of  the  rebel  host. 

Ever  its  torn  folds  rose  and  fell 

On  the  loyal  winds  that  loved  it  well  ; 

And  through  the  hill-gaps  sunset  light 
Shone  over  it  with  a  warm  good-night. 

Barbara  Frietchie's  work  is  o'er, 

And  the  Rebel  rides  on  his  raids  no  more. 

Honor  to  her  !  and  let  a  tear 

Fall,  for  her  sake,  on  StonewalFs  bier. 

Over  Barbara  Frietchie's  grave, 
Flag  of  Freedom  and  Union,  wave  ! 


Peace  and  order  and  beauty  draw 
Round  thy  symbol  of  light  and  law  ; 

And  ever  the  stars  above  look  dowr 
On  thy  stars  below  in  Frederick  town  ! 

WHAT   THE    BIRDS    SAID 

THE  birds  against  the  April  wind 

Flew  northward,  singing  as  they  flew  ; 

They  sang,  "  The  land  we  leave  behind 
Has  swords   for   corn-blades,  blood   fo? 
dew." 

"  O  wild-birds,  flying  from  the  South, 
What  saw  and  heard  ye,  gazing  down  ?  n 

"  We  saw  the  mortar's  upturned  mouth, 
The  sickened  camp,  the  blazing  town  ! 

"Beneath  the  bivouac's  starry  lamps, 
We  saw  your  march-worn  children  die  ; 

In  shrouds  of  moss,  in  cypress  swamps, 
We  saw  your  dead  uncoffined  lie. 

"  We  heard  the  starving  prisoner's  sighs 
And   saw,  from   line    and   trench,   youi 
sons 

Follow  our  flight  with  home-sick  eyes 
Beyond  the  battery's  smoking  guns." 

"  And  heard  and  saw  ye  only  wrong 

And    pain,"    I    cried,    "  O     wing  -  worn 

flocks?" 
"We  heard,"  they  sang,  « the  freedman's 

song, 
The  crash  of  Slavery's  broken  locks  ! 

"  We  saw  from  new,  uprising  States 
The  treason-nursing  mischief  spurned, 

As,  crowding  Freedom's  ample  gates, 
The  long-estranged  and  lost  returned. 

"  O'er  dusky  faces,  seamed  and  old, 
And  hands  horn-hard  with  unpaid  toil. 

With  hope  in  every  rustling  fold, 
We  saw  your  star-dropt  flag  uncoil. 

"  And  struggling  up    through  sounds  ao 

cursed, 

A  grateful  murmur  clomb  the  air  ; 
A  whisper  scarcely  heard  at  first, 

It    filled    the    listening    heavens    with 
prayer. 


344 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


*8  And  sweet  and  far,  as  from  a  star, 
Replied  a  voice  which  shall  not  cease, 

Till,  drowning  all  the  noise  of  war, 
It  sings  the  blessed  song  of  peace  ! " 

So  to  me,  in  a  doubtful  day 

Of  chill  and  slowly  greening  spring, 
Low  stooping  from  the  cloudy  gray, 

The  wild- birds  sang  or  seemed  to  sing. 

TLey  vanished  in  the  misty  air, 

The  song  went  with  them  in  their  flight  ; 
But  lo  !  they  left  the  sunset  fair, 

And  in  the  evening  there  was  light. 


THE   MANTLE   OF   ST.  JOHN 
DE    MATHA 

A   LEGEND   OF    "THE    RED,    WHITE,     AND 
BLUE,"    A.    D.    1154-1864 

A  STRONG  and  mighty  Angel, 

Calm,  terrible,  and  bright, 
The  cross  in  blended  red  and  blue 

Upon  his  mantle  white  ! 

??wo  captives  by  him  kneeling, 

Each  on  his  broken  chain, 
Sang  praise  to  God  who  raiseth 

The  dead  to  life  again  ! 

Dropping  his  cross-wrought  mantle, 
"  Wear  this,"  the  Angel  said  ; 

"  Take  thou,  O  Freedom's  priest,  its  sign,  — 
The  white,  the  blue,  and  red.'* 

Then  rose  up  John  de  Matha 

In  the  strength  the  Lord  Christ  gave, 
And  begged  through  all  the  land  of  France 

The  ransom  of  the  slave. 

The  gates  of  tower  and  castle 

Before  him  open  flew, 
The  drawbridge  at  his  coming  fell, 

The  door  -bolt  backward  drew. 

For  all  men  owned  his  errand, 

And  paid  his  righteous  tax  ; 
And  the  hearts  of  lord  and  peasant 

Were  in  his  hands  as  wax. 

At  last,  outbound  from  Tunis, 

His  bark  her  anchor  weighed, 
Freighted  with  seven-score  Christian  souls 

Whose  ransom  he  had  paid. 


But,  torn  by  Paynim  hatred, 

Her  sails  in  tatters  hung  ; 
And  on  the  wild  waves,  rudderless, 

A  shattered  hulk  she  swung 

"  God  save  us  ! "  cried  the  captain, 

"  For  naught  can  man  avail  ; 
Oh,  woe  betide  the  ship  that  lacks 

Her  rudder  and  her  sail  ! 

"  Behind  us  are  the  Moormen  ; 

At  sea  we  sink  or  strand  : 
There  's  death  upon  the  water, 

There  's  death  upon  the  land  ! " 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha  : 

"God's  errands  never  fail ! 
Take  thou  the  mantle  which  I  wear, 

And  make  of  it  a  sail." 

They  raised  the  cross-wrought  mantle 

The  blue,  the  white,  the  red  ; 
And  straight  before  the  wind  ofP-shore 

The  ship  of  Freedom  sped. 

"  God  help  us  !  "  cried  the  seamen, 

"  For  vain  is  mortal  skill : 
The  good  ship  on  a  stormy  sea 

Is  drifting  at  its  will.  "" 

Then  up  spake  John  de  Matha : 

"  My  mariners,  never  fear  ! 
The    Lord    whose    breath    has    filled    her 
sail 

May  well  our  vessel  steer  ! "' 

So  on  through  storm  and  darkness 

They  drove  for  weary  hours  ; 
And  lo  !  tlie  third  gray  morning  shone 

On  Ostia's  friendly  towers. 

And  on  the  walls  the  watchers 

The  ship  of  mercy  knew, — 
They  knew  far  off  its  holy  cross, 

The  red,  the  white,  and  blue. 

And  the  bells  in  all  the  steeples 

Rang  out  in  glad  accord, 
To  welcome  home  to  Christian  soil 

The  ransomed  of  the  Lord. 

So  runs  the  ancient  legend 

By  bard  and  painter  told  ; 
And  lo  !  the  cycle  rounds  again, 

The  new  is  as  the  old  ! 


LAUS   DEO 


345 


With  rudder  foully  broken, 

And  sails  by  traitors  torn, 
Our  country  on  a  midnight  sea 

Is  waiting  for  the  morn. 

Before  her,  nameless  terror  ; 

Behind,  the  pirate  foe  ; 
The  clouds  are  black  above  her, 

The  sea  is  white  below. 

The  hope  of  all  who  suffer, 
The  dread  of  all  who  wrong, 

She  drifts  in  darkness  and  in  storm, 
How  long,  O  Lord  !  how  long  ? 

But  courage,  O  my  mariners  ! 

Ye  shall  not  suffer  wreck, 
While  up  to  God  the  freedman's  prayers 

Are  rising  from  your  deck. 

Is  not  your  sail  the  banner 
Which  God  hath  blest  anew, 

The  mantle  that  De  Matha  wore, 
The  red,  the  white,  the  blue  ? 

Its  hues  are  all  of  heaven,  — 

The  red  of  sunset's  dye, 
The  whiteness  of  the  moon-lit  cloud, 

The  blue  of  morning's  sky. 

Wait  cheerily,  then,  O  mariners, 

For  daylight  and  for  land  ; 
The  breath  of  God  is  in  your  sail, 

Your  rudder  is  His  hand. 

Sail  on,  sail  on,  deep-freighted 
With  blessings  and  with  hopes  ; 

The  saints  of  old  with  shadowy  hands 
Are  pulling  at  your  ropes. 

Behind  ye  holy  martyrs 

Uplift  the  palm  and  crown  ; 
Before  ye  unborn  ages  send 

Their  benedictions  down. 

Take  heart  from  John  de  Matha!  — 

God's  errands  never  fail  ! 
Sweep  on  through  storm  and  darkness, 

The  thunder  and  the  hail  ! 

Sail  on  !     The  morning  cometh, 

The  port  ye  yet  shall  win  ; 
And  all  the  bells  of  God  shall  ring 

The  good  ship  bravely  in  ! 


LAUS    DEO! 

On  hearing1  the  bells  ring1  on  the  passage  of 
the  constitutional  amendment  abolishing-  slav 
ery  The  resolution  was  adopted  by  Congress, 
January  31,  18b';">.  The  ratification  by  the  re 
quisite  number  of  States  was  annoimced  Decem 
ber  18, 18(>5.  [The  suggestion  came  to  the  poet 
as  he  sat  in  the  Friends'  Meeting-house  in  Ames- 
bury,  where  he  was  present  at  the  regular  Fifth- 
day  meeting-.  All  sat  in  silence,  but  on  his 
return  to  his  home,  he  recited  a  portion  of  the 
poem,  not  yet  committed  to  paper,  to  his  house 
mates  in  the  garden  room.  ' '  It  wrote  itself,  or 
rather  sang-  itself,  while  the  bells  rang1,"  he 
wrote  to  Lucy  Larcom.] 

IT  is  done  ! 

Clang  of  bell  and  roar  of  gun 
Send  the  tidings  up  and  down. 

How  the  belfries  rock  and  reel  ! 

How  the  great  guns,  peal  on  peal, 
Fling  the  joy  from  town  to  town  ! 

Ring,  O  bells  ! 

Every  stroke  exulting  tells 
Of  the  burial  hour  of  crime. 

Loud  and  long,  that  all  may  hear, 

Ring  for  every  listening  ear 
Of  Eternity  and  Time  ! 

Let  us  kneel  : 
God's  own  voice  is  in  that  peal, 

And  this  spot  is  holy  ground. 

Lord,  forgive  us  !     What  are  we, 
That  our  eyes  this  glory  see, 

That  our  ears  have  heard  the  sound  ! 

For  the  Lord 

On  the  whirlwind  is  abroad  ; 
In  the  earthquake  He  has  spoken  ; 

He  has  smitten  with  His  thunder 

The  iron  walls  asunder, 
And  the  gates  of  brass  are  broken  ! 

Loud  and  long 
Lift  the  old  exulting  song  ; 
Sing  with  Miriam  by  the  sea, 
He  has  cast  the  mighty  down  ; 
Horse  and  rider  sink  and  drown  j 
"  He  hath  triumphed  gloriously  !  " 

Did  we  dare, 
In  our  agony  of  prayer, 
Ask  for  more  than  He  has  done  ? 


346 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


When  was  ever  His  right  hand 
Over  any  time  or  land 
Stretched  as  now  beneath  the  sun  ? 

How  they  pale, 
Ancient  myth  and  song  and  tale, 

In  this  wonder  of  our  days, 
When  the  cruel  rod  of  war 
Blossoms  white  with  righteous  law, 

And  the  wrath  of  man  is  praise  ! 

Blotted  out ! 

All  within  and  all  about 
Shall  a  fresher  life  begin  ; 

Freer  breathe  the  universe 

As  it  rolls  its  heavy  curse 
On  the  dead  and  buried  sin  ! 

It  is  done  ! 
In  the  circuit  of  the  sun 

Shall  the  sound  thereof  go  forth. 
It  shall  bid  the  sad  rejoice, 
It  shall  give  the  dumb  a  voice, 

It  shall  belt  with  joy  the  earth  ! 

Ring  and  swing, 
Bells  of  joy  !     On  morning's  wing 

Send  the  song  of  praise  abroad  ! 
With  a  sound  of  broken  chains 
Tell  the  nations  that  He  reigns, 

Who  alone  is  Lord  and  God  ! 


HYMN 

FOR    THE    CELEBRATION    OF   EMANCIPA 
TION    AT    NEWBURYPORT 

NOT  unto  us  who  did  but  seek 

The  word  that  burned  within  to  speak, 

Not  unto  us  this  day  belong 

The  triumph  and  exultant  song. 

Upon  us  fell  in  early  youth 
The  burden  of  unwelcome  truth, 
And  left  us,  weak  and  frail  and  few, 
The  censor's  painful  work  to  do. 

Thenceforth  our  life  a  fight  became, 
The  air  we  breathed  was  hot  with  blame  ; 
For  not  with  gauged  and  softened  tone 
We  made  the  bondman's  cause  our  own. 

We  bore,  as  Freedom's  hope  forlorn, 
The  private  hate,  the  public  scorn  ; 


Yet  held  through  all  the  paths  we  trod 
Our  faith  in  man  and  trust  in  God. 

We  prayed  and  hoped  ;  but  still,  with  awe, 
The  coming  of  the  sword  we  saw  ; 
We  heard  the  Hearing  steps  of  doom, 
We  saw  the  shade  of  things  to  come. 

In  grief  which  they  alone  can  feel 
Who  from  a  mother's  wrong  appeal, 
With  blended  lines  of  fear  and  hope 
We  cast  our  country's  horoscope. 

For  still  within  her  house  of  life 
We  marked  the  lurid  sign  of  strife, 
And,  poisoning  and  iinbittering  all, 
We  saw  the  star  of  Wormwood  fall. 

Deep  as  our  love  for  her  became 
Our  hate  of  all  that  wrought  her  shame, 
And  if,  thereby,  with  tongue  and  pen 
We  erred,  —  we  were  but  mortal  men. 

We  hoped  for  peace  ;  our  eyes  survey 
The  blood-red  dawn  of  Freedom's  day  : 
We  prayed  for  love  to  loose  the  chain  ; 
'Tis  shorn  by  battle's  axe  in  twain  ! 

Nor  skill  nor  strength  nor  zeal  of  ours 
Has  mined  and  heaved  the  hostile  towers  ; 
Not  by  our  hands  is  turned  the  key 
That  sets  the  sighing  captives  free. 

A  redder  sea  than  Egypt's  wave 
Is  piled  and  parted  for  the  slave  ; 
A  darker  cloud  moves  on  in  light ; 
A  fiercer  fire  is  guide  by  night ! 

The  praise,  O  Lord  !  is  Thine  alone, 
In  Thy  own  way  Thy  work  is  done  ! 
Our  poor  gifts  at  Thy  feet  we  cast, 
To  whom  be  glory,  first  and  last ! 


AFTER  THE  WAR 
THE  PEACE  AUTUMN 

Written  for  the  Essex  County  Agricultural 
Festival,  1865. 

THANK  God  for  rest,  where  none  molest, 
And  none  can  make  afraid  ; 

For  Peace  that  sits  as  Plenty's  guest 
Beneath  the  homestead  shade  ! 


TO   THE  THIRTY-NINTH   CONGRESS 


347 


Bring  pike   and    gun,   the    sword's    red 
scourge, 

The  negro's  broken  chains, 
And  beat  them  at  the  blacksmith's  forge 

To  ploughshares  for  our  plains. 

Alike  henceforth  our  hills  of  snow, 
And  vales  where  cotton  flowers  ; 

All  streams  that  flow,  all  winds  that  blow, 
Are  Freedom's  motive-powers. 

Henceforth  to  Labor's  chivalry 

Be  knightly  honors  paid  ; 
For  nobler  than  the  sword's  shall  be 

The  sickle's  accolade. 

Build  up  an  altar  to  the  Lord, 

O  grateful  hearts  of  ours  ! 
And  shape  it  of  the  greenest  sward 

That  ever  drank  the  showers. 

Lay  all  the  bloom  of  gardens  there, 
And  there  the  orchard  fruits  ; 

Bring  golden  grain  from  sun  and  air, 
From  earth  her  goodly  roots. 

There  let  our  banners  droop  and  flow, 

The  stars  uprise  and  fall  ; 
Our  roll  of  martyrs,  sad  and  slow, 

Let  sighing  breezes  call. 

Their  names  let  hands  of  horn  and  tan 
And  rough-shod  feet  applaud, 

Who  died  to  make  the  slave  a  man, 
And  link  with  toil  reward. 

There  let  the  common  heart  keep  time 

To  such  an  anthem  sung 
As  never  swelled  on  poet's  rhyme, 

Or  thrilled  on  singer's  tongue. 

Song  of  our  burden  and  relief, 

Of  peace  and  long  annoy  ; 
The  passion  of  our  mighty  grief 

And  our  exceeding  joy  ! 

A  song  of  praise  to  Him  who  filled 

The  harvests  sown  in  tears, 
And  gave  each  field  a  double  yield 

To  feed  our  battle-years  ! 

A  song  of  faith  that  trusts  the  end 

To  match  the  good  begun, 
Nor  doubts  the  power  of  Love  to  blend 

The  hearts  of  men  as  one  ! 


TO 


THE    THIRTY-NINTH 
GRESS 


CON- 


The  thirty-ninth  congress  was  that  which 
met  in  1865,  after  the  close  of  the  war,  when  it 
was  charged  with  the  great  question  of  recon 
struction  ;  the  uppermost  subject  in  men's 
minds  was  the  standing1  of  those  who  had  re 
cently  been  in  arms  against  the  Union  and 
their  relations  to  the  freedmen. 

O  PEOPLE-CHOSEN  !  are  ye  not 
Likewise  the  chosen  of  the  Lord, 
To  do  His  will  and  speak  His  word  ? 

From  the  loud  thunder-storm  of  war 
Not  man  alone  hath  called  ye  forth, 
But  He,  the  God  of  all  the  earth  ! 

The  torch  of  vengeance  in  your  hands 
He  quenches  ;  unto  Him  belongs 
The  solemn  recompense  of  wrongs. 

Enough  of  blood  the  land  has  seen, 
And  not  by  cell  or  gallows-stair 
Shall  ye  the  way  of  God  prepare. 

Say  to  the  pardon-seekers  :  Keep 

I  our  manhood,  bend  no  suppliant  knees, 
Nor  palter  with  unworthy  pleas. 

Above  your  voices  sounds  the  wail 
Of  starving  men  ;  we  shut  in  vain 
Our  eyes  to  Pillow's  ghastly  stain. 

What  words  can  drown  that  bitter  cry  ? 
What  tears  wash  out  the  stain  of  death  ? 
What  oaths  confirm  your  broken  faith  ? 

From  you  alone  the  guaranty 

Of  union,  freedom,  peace,  we  claim  ; 
We  urge  no  conqueror's  terms  of  shame. 

Alas  !  no  victor's  pride  is  ours  ; 
We  bend  above  our  triumphs  won 
Like  David  o'er  his  rebel  son. 

Be  men,  not  beggars.     Cancel  all 

By  one  brave,  generous  action  ;  trust 
Your  better  instincts,  and  be  just  ! 

Make  all  men  peers  before  the  law, 

Take  hands  from  off  the  negro's  throaty 
Give  black  and  white  an  equal  vote. 


348 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


Keep  all  your  forfeit  lives  and  lands, 
But  give  the  common  law's  redress 
To  labor's  utter  nakedness. 

Revive  the  old  heroic  will  ; 

Be  iii  the  right  as  brave  and  strong 

As  ye  have  proved  yourselves  in  wrong. 

Defeat  shall  then  be  victory, 

Your  loss  the  wealth  of  full  amends, 
And  hate  be  love,  and  foes  be  friends. 

Then  buried  be  the  dreadful  past, 

Its  common  slain  be  mourned,  and  let 
All  memories  soften  to  regret. 

Then  shall  the  Union's  mother-heart 
Her  lost  and  wandering-  ones  recall, 
Forgiving  and  restoring  all,  — 

1  nd  Freedom  break  her  marble  trance 
Above  the  Capitolian  dome, 
Stretch     hands,    and    bid    ye     welcome 
home  ! 


THE    HIVE   AT    GETTYSBURG 

IN  the  old  Hebrew  myth  the  lion's  frame, 

So  terrible  alive, 

Bleached  by  the  desert's  sun  and  wind,  be 
came 

The  wandering  wild  bees'  hive  ; 
And  he  who,  lone  and  naked-handed,  tore 

Those  jaws  of  death  apart, 
In  after  time  drew  forth  their  honeyed  store 

To  strengthen  his  strong  heart. 

Dead  seemed  the  legend  :  but  it  only  slept 

To  wake  beneath  our  sky  ; 
Just  on  the  spot  whence  ravening  Treason 

crept 

Back  to  its  lair  to  die, 

Bleeding  and  torn  from  Freedom's  moun 
tain  bounds, 

A  stained  and  shattered  drum 
Is  now  the  hive  where,  on  their  flowery 

rounds, 
The  wild  bees  go  and  come. 

'  Jnchallenged  by  a  ghostly  sentinel, 

They  wander  wide  and  far, 
Along  green  hillsides,  sown  with  shot  and 
shell, 

Through  vales  once  choked  with  war. 


The  low  reveille  of  their  battle-drum 

Disturbs  no  morning  prayer  : 
With  deeper  peace  in  summer  noons  theii 
hum 

Fills  all  the  drowsy  air. 

And  Samson's  riddle  is  our  own  to-day, 

Of  sweetness  from  the  strong, 
Of    union,    peace,    and   freedom   plucked 
away 

From  the  rent  jaws  of  wrong. 
From  Treason's  death   we    draw  a  purer 
life, 

As,  from  the  beast  he  slew, 
A  sweetness  sweeter  for  his  bitter  strife 

The  old-time  athlete  drew  1 


HOWARD   AT   ATLANTA 

RIGHT  in  the  track  where  Sherman 

Ploughed  his  red  furrow, 
Out  of  the  narrow  cabin, 

Up  from  the  cellar's  burrow, 
Gathered  the  little  black  people, 

With  freedom  newly  dowered, 
Where,  beside  their  Northern  teacher, 

Stood  the  soldier,  Howard. 

He  listened  and  heard  the  children 

Of  the  poor  and  long-enslaved 
Reading  the  words  of  Jesus, 

Singing  the  scngs  of  David. 
Behold  !  —  the  dumb  lips  speaking, 

The  blind  eyes  seeing  ! 
Bones  of  the  Prophet's  vision 

Warmed  into  being  ! 

Transformed  he  saw  them  passing 

Their  new  life's  portal ! 
Almost  it  seemed  the  mortal 

Put  on  the  immortal. 
No  more  with  the  beasts  of  burden, 

No  more  with  stone  and  clod, 
But  crowned  with  glory  and  honor 

In  the  image  of  God  ! 

There  was  the  human  chattel 

Its  manhood  taking  ; 
There,  in  each  dark,  bronze  statue, 

A  soul  was  waking  ! 
The  man  of  many  battles, 

With  tears  his  eyelids  pressing, 
Stretched  over  those  dusky  foreheads 

His  one-armed  blessing. 


THE  JUBILEE   SINGERS 


349 


And  he  said  :  "  Who  hears  can  never 

Fear  for  or  doubt  you  ; 
What  shall  I  tell  the  children 

Up  North  about  you  ?  " 
Then  ran  round  a  whisper,  a  murmur, 

Some  answer  devising  ; 
And  a  little  boy  stood  up  :  "  General, 

Tell  'em  we  're  rising  !  " 

0  black  boy  of  Atlanta  ! 

But  half  was  spoken  : 
The  slave's  chain  and  the  master's 

Alike  are  broken. 
The  one  curse  of  the  races 

Held  both  in  tether  : 
They  are  rising,  —  all  are  rising, 

The  black  and  white  together  ! 

0  brave  men  and  fair  women  ! 

Ill  comes  of  hate  and  scorning  : 
Shall  the  dark  faces  only 

Be  turned  to  morning  ?  — 
Make  Time  your  sole  avenger, 

All-healing,  all-redressing ; 
Meet  Fate  half-way,  and  make  it 

A  joy  and  blessing  ! 


THE  EMANCIPATION  GROUP 

Moses  Kimball,  a  citizen  of  Boston,  pre 
sented  to  the  city  a  duplicate  of  the  Freedman's 
Memorial  statue  erected  in  Lincoln  Square, 
Washington.  The  group,  which  stands  in  Park 
Square,  represents  the  figure  of  a  slave,  from 
whose  limbs  the  broken  fetters  have  fallen, 
kneeling  in  gratitude  at  the  feet  of  Lincoln. 
The  group  was  designed  by  Thomas  Ball,  and 
was  unveiled  December  i),  1879.  These  verses 
were  written  for  the  occasion. 

AMIDST  thy  sacred  effigies 

Of  old  renown  give  place, 
0  city,  Freedom-loved  !  to  his 

Whose  hand  unchained  a  race. 

Take  the  worn  frame,  that  rested  not 

Save  in  a  martyr's  grave  ; 
The  care-lined  face,  that  none  forgot, 

Bent  to  the  kneeling  slave. 

Let  man  be  free  !     The  mighty  word 

He  spake  was  not  his  own  ; 
An  impulse  from  the  Highest  stirred 

These  chiselled  lips  alone. 


The  cloudy  sign,  the  fiery  guide, 

Along  his  pathway  ran. 
And  Nature,  through  his  voice,  denied 

The  ownership  of  man. 

We  rest  in  peace  where  these  sad  eyes 

Saw  peril,  strife,  and  pain  ; 
His  was  the  nation's  sacrifice, 

And  ours  the  priceless  gain. 

O  symbol  of  God's  will  on  earth 

As  it  is  done  above  ! 
Bear  witness  to  the  cost  and  worth 

Of  justice  and  of  love. 

Stand  in  thy  place  and  testify 

To  coming  ages  long, 
That  truth  is  stronger  than  a  lie, 

And  righteousness  than  wrong. 

THE  JUBILEE  SINGERS 

A  number  of  students  of  Fisk  University, 
under  the  direction  of  one  of  the  officers,  gave 
a  series  of  concerts  in  the  Northern  States,  for 
the  purpose  of  establishing  the  college  on  a 
firmer  financial  foundation.  Their  hymns  and 
songs,  mostly  in  a  minor  key,  touched  the 
hearts  of  the  people,  and  were  received  as  pe 
culiarly  expressive  of  a  race  delivered  from 
bondage. 

VOICE  of  a  people  suffering  long, 
The  pathos  of  their  mournful  song, 
The  sorrow  of  their  night  of  wrong  ! 

Their  cry  like  that  which  Israel  gave, 
A  prayer  for  one  to  guide  and  save, 
Like  Moses  by  the  Red  Sea's  wave  ! 

The  stern  accord  her  timbrel  lent 
To  Miriam's  note  of  triumph  sent 
O'er  Egypt's  sunken  armament ! 

The  tramp  that  startled  camp  and  town, 
And  shook  the  walls  of  slavery  down, 
The  spectral  march  of  old  John  Brown  ! 

The  storm  that  swept  through  battle-days, 

The  triumph  after  long  delays, 

The  bondmen  giving  God  the  praise  ! 

Voice  of  a  ransomed  race,  sing  on 
Till  Freedom's  every  right  is  won, 
And  slavery's  every  wrong  undone  i 


35° 


ANTI-SLAVERY   POEMS 


GARRISON 

The  earliest  poem  in  this  division  was  my 
youthful  tribute  to  the  gTeat  reformer  when 
himself  a  young1  man  he  was  first  sounding  his 
trumpet  in  Essex  County.  I  close  with  the 
verses  inscribed  to  him  at  the  end  of  his  earthly 
career,  May  24,  1879.  My  poetical  service  in 
the  cause  of  freedom  is  thus  almost  synchro 
nous  with  his  life  of  devotion  to  the  same  cause. 

THE  storm  and  peril  overpast, 

The  hounding  hatred  shamed  and  still, 
Go,  soul  of  freedom  !  take  at  last 

The  place  which  thou  alone  canst  fill. 

Confirm  the  lesson  taught  of  old  — 
Life  saved  for  self  is  lost,  while  they 

Who  lose  it  in  His  service  hold 
The  lease  of  God's  eternal  day. 

Not  for  thyself,  but  for  the  slave 

Thy  words  of  thunder  shook  the  world  ; 

No  selfish  griefs  or  hatred  gave 

The  strength  wherewith  thy  bolts  were 
hurled. 

From  lips  that  Sinai's  trumpet  blew 
We  heard  a  tender  under  song  ; 

Thy  very  wrath  from  pity  grew, 

From  love  of  man  thy  hate  of  wrong. 


Now  past  and  present  are  as  one  ; 

The  life  below  is  life  above  ; 
Thy  mortal  years  have  but  begun 

Thy  immortality  of  love. 

With  somewhat  of  thy  lofty  faith 
We  lay  thy  outworn  garment  by, 

Give  death  but  what  belongs  to  death, 
And  life  the  life  that  cannot  die  ! 

Not  for  a  soul  like  thine  the  calm 
Of  selfish  ease  and  joys  of  sense  ; 

But  duty,  more  than  crown  or  palm, 
Its  own  exceeding  recompense. 

Go  up  and  on  !  thy  day  well  done, 
Its  morning  promise  well  fulfilled, 

Arise  to  triumphs  yet  unwon, 

To  holier  tasks  that  God  has  willed. 

Go,  leave  behind  tbee  all  that  mars 
The  work  below  of  man  for  man  ; 

With  the  white  legions  of  the  stars 
Do  service  such  as  angels  can. 

Wherever  wrong  shall  right  deny 
Or  suffering  spirits  urge  their   plea, 

Be  thine  a  voice  to  smite  the  lie, 
A  hand  to  set  the  captive  free  I 


SONGS  OF  LABOR  AND  REFORM 


THE    QUAKER    OF    THE    OLDEN 
TIME 

THE  Quaker  of  the  olden  time  ! 

How  calm  and  firm  and  true, 
Unspotted  by  its  wrong  and  crime, 

He  walked  the  dark  earth  through. 
The  lust  of  power,  the  love  of  gain, 

The  thousand  lures  of  sin 
Around  him,  had  no  power  to  stain 

The  purity  within. 

With  that  deep  insight  which  detects 

All  great  things  in  the  small, 
And  knows  how  each  man's  life  affects 

The  spiritual  life  of  all, 
He  walked  by  faith  and  not  by  sight, 

By  love  and  not  by  law  ; 
The  presence  of  the  wrong  or  right 

He  rather  felt  than  saw. 

He  felt  that  wrong  with  wrong  partakes, 

That  nothing  stands  alone, 
That  whoso  gives  the  motive,  makes 

His  brother's  sin  his  own. 
And,  pausing  not  for  doubtful  choice 

Of  evils  great  or  small, 
He  listened  to  that  inward  voice 

Which  called  away  from  all. 

O  Spirit  of  that  early  day, 

So  pure  and  strong  and  true, 
Be  with  us  in  the  narrow  way 

Our  faithful  fathers  knew. 
Give  strength  the  evil  to  forsake, 

The  cross  of  Truth  to  bear, 
And  love  and  reverent  fear  to  make 

Our  daily  lives  a  prayer  1 

DEMOCRACY 

All  things  whatsoever  ye  would  that  men  should  do 
to  you,  do  ye  even  so  to  them.  —  Matthew  vii.  12. 

BEARER  of  Freedom's  holy  light, 
Breaker  of  Slavery's  chain  and  rod, 


The  foe  of  all  which  pains  the  sight, 
Or  wounds  the  generous  ear  of  God  t 

Beautiful  yet  thy  temples  rise, 

Though  there  profaning  gifts  are  thrown ; 
And  fires  unkindled  of  the  skies 

Are  glaring  round  thy  altar-stone. 

Still  sacred,  though  thy  name  be  breathed 
By  those   whose    hearts    thy   truth  de 
ride  ; 
And    garlands,    plucked    from    thee,    are 

wreathed 
Around  the  haughty  brows  of  Pride. 

Oh,  ideal  of  my  boyhood's  time  ! 

The  faith  in  which  my  father  stood, 
Even  when  the  sons  of  Lust  and  Crime 

Had  stained  thy    peaceful   courts    with 
blood  ! 

Still  to  those  courts  my  footsteps  turn, 
For  through  the  mists  which  darken  there 

I  see  the  flame  of  Freedom  burn,  — 
The  Kebia  of  the  patriot's  prayer  ! 

The  generous  feeling,  pure  and  warm, 
Which  owns  the  right  of  all  divine  ; 

The  pitying  heart,  the  helping  arm, 
The  prompt  self-sacrifice,  are  thine. 

Beneath  thy  broad,  impartial  eye, 

How  fade  the  lines  of  caste  and  birth  ! 

How  equal  in  their  suffering  lie 
The  groaning  multitudes  of  earth  ! 

Still  to  a  stricken  brother  true, 

Whatever  clime  hath  nurtured  him  ; 

As  stooped  to  heal  the  wounded  Jew 
The  worshipper  of  Gerizim. 

By  misery  unrepelled,  unawed 

By  pomp  or  power,  thoii  seest  a  Man 

In  prince  or  peasant,  slave  or  lord, 
Pale  priest,  or  swarthy  artisan. 


461 


352 


SONGS   OF   LABOR   AND   REFORM 


Through    all     disguise,    form,     place,    or 
name, 

Beneath  the  Haunting  robes  of  sin, 
Through  poverty  and  squalid  shame, 
Thou  lookest  on  the  man  within. 

On  man,  as  man,  retaining  yet, 

Howe'er  debased,  and  soiled,  and  dim, 

The  crown  upon  his  forehead  set, 
The  immortal  gift  of  God  to  him. 

And  there  is  reverence  in  thy  look  ; 

For  that  frail  form  which  mortals  wear 
The  Spirit  of  the  Holiest  took, 

And  veiled  His  perfect  brightness  there. 

Not  from  the  shallow  babbling  fount 

Of  vain  philosophy  thou  art  ; 
He  who  of  old  on  Syria's  Mount 

Thrilled,   warmed,  by  turns,  the  listen 
er's  heart, 

In  holy  words  which  cannot  die, 

In    thoughts    which     angels    leaned    to 

know, 
Proclaimed  thy  message  from  on  high, 

Thy  mission  to  a  world  of  woe. 

That  voice's  echo  hath  not  died  ! 

From  the  blue  lake  of  Galilee, 
And  Tabor's  lonely  mountain-side, 

It  calls  a  struggling  world  to  thee. 

Thy  name  and  watchword  o'er  this  land 
I  hear  in  every  breeze  that  stirs, 

And  round  a  thousand  altars  stand 
Thy  banded  party  worshippers. 

Not  to  these  altars  of  a  day, 

At  party's  call,  my  gift  I  bring  ; 

But  on  thy  olden  shrine  I  lay 
A  freeman's  dearest  offering  : 

The  voiceless  utterance  of  his  will,  — 
His  pledge  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth, 

That  manhood's  heart  remembers  still 
The  homage  of  his  generous  youth. 


THE  GALLOWS 

Written  on  reading  pamphlets  published  by 
clergymen  against  the  abolition  of  the  gallows. 
(Originally  entitled  Lines.] 


THE  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have  shone 
Since  the  Redeemer  walked  with  man,  and 

made 

The  fisher's  boat,  the  cavern's  floor  of  stone, 
And   mountain  moss,  a  pillow  for   His 

head  ; 
And  He,  who  wandered  with  the  peasant 

Jew, 
And  broke  \\ith  publicans  the  bread  of 

shame, 
And  drank  with  blessings,  in  His  Father's 

name, 

The  water  which  Samaria's  outcast  drew, 
Hath  now  His  temples  upon  every  shore, 
Altar  and  shrine  and  priest  ;  and  incense 

dim 
Evermore  rising,  with  low  prayer  and 

hymn, 
From  lips  which  press  the  temple's  marble 

floor, 

Or  kiss  the  gilded  sign  of  the  dread  cross 
He  bore. 


Yet  as  of  old,  when,  meekly  "  doing  good," 
He  fed  a  blind  and  selfish  multitude, 
And  even  the  poor  companions  of  His  lot 
With  their  dim  earthly  vision  knew  Him 

not, 
How  ill  are  His  high  teachings  under 

stood  ! 

Where  He  hath  spoken  Liberty,  the  priest 

At  His  own  altar  binds  the  chain  anew  ; 

Where  He  hath  bidden  to  Life's  equal  feast, 

The  starving  many  wait  upon  the  few  ; 
Where  He  hath  spoken  Peace,  His  name 

hath  been 

The  loudest  war-cry  of  contending  men  ; 
Priests,  pale  with  vigils,  in  His  name  have 

blessed 
The  unsheathed  sword,  and  laid  the  spear 

in  rest, 

Wet  the  war-banner  with  their  sacred  wine. 
And  crossed  its  blazon  with  the  holy  sign  ; 
Yea,  in  His  name  who  bade  the  erring  livev 
And  daily  taught  His  lesson,  to  forgive  ! 
Twisted  the  cord  and  edged  the  murder 
ous  steel  ; 
And,  with   His    words    of  mercy  on  theh 

lips, 
Hung   gloating  o'er   the   pincers'   burning 

grips, 


THE   GALLOWS 


353 


And  the  grim   horror   of   the    straining 

wheel  ; 

Fed  the  slow  flame  which  gnawed  the  vic 
tim's  limb, 

Who  saw  before  his  searing  eyeballs  swim 
The  image  of  their  Christ  in  crnel  zeal, 
Through   the    black    torment-smoke,    held 
mockingly  to  him  ! 


Ill 


The  blood  which  mingled  with  the  desert 

sand, 

And   beaded  with    its   red  and  ghastly 
dew 

The  vines  and  olives  of  the  Holy  Land  ; 
The  shrieking  curses  of  the  hunted  Jew  ; 

The  white-sown  bones  of  heretics,  where'er 

They  sank  beneath  the  Crusade's  holy  spear, 

Goa's  dark  dungeons,  Malta's  sea- washed 

cell, 

Where  with   the  hymns  the  ghostly  fa 
thers  sung 

Mingled   the  groans  by   subtle   torture 
wrung, 

Heaven's  anthem  blending  with  the  shriek 
of  hell  ! 

The  midnight  of  Bartholomew,  the  stake 
Of   Smithfield,  and  that  thrice-accursed 
flame 

Which  Calvin  kindled  by  Geneva's  lake  ; 

^Tew  England's  scaffold,  and  the  priestly 
sneer 

Which  mocked  its  victims  in  that  hour  of 

fear, 

When  guilt  itself  a  human  tear  might 
claim,  — 

Bear  witness,  O  Thou  wronged  and  merci 
ful  One  ! 

That  Earth's  most  hateful  crimes  have  in 
Thy  name  been  done  ! 


IV 


Thank  God  !  that  I  have  lived  to  see  the 

time 
When  the  great  truth  begins  at  last  to 

find 
An  utterance  from   the  deep    heart    of 

mankind, 

Earnest  and  clear,  that  all  Revenge  is  Crime, 
That  man  is  holier  than  a  creed,  that  all 

Restraint  upon  him  must  consult  his  good, 
Hope's  sunshine  linger  on  his  prison  wall, 
And  Love  look  in  upon  his  solitude. 


The    beautiful  lesson    which    our   Saviour 

taught 
Through  long,  dark  centuries  its  way  hath 

wrought 

Into  the  common  mind  and  popular  thought ; 
And  words,  to  which  by  Galilee's  lake  shore 
The  humble  fishers  listened  with  hushed  oar, 
Have  found  an  echo  in  the  general  heart, 
And  of  the  public  faith  become  a  living  part. 


Who  shall  arrest  this  tendency  ?     Bring 

back 

The  cells  of  Venice  and  the  bigot's  rack  ? 
Harden  the  softening  human  heart  again 
To  cold  indifference  to  a  brother's  pain  ? 
Ye  most  unhappy  men  !  who,  turned  away 
From  the  mild  sunshine  of  the  Gospel  day, 
Grope  in  the  shadows  of  Man's  twilight 

time, 
What  mean  ye,  that   with  ghoul-like  zest 

ye  brood, 
O'er  those  foul  altars  streaming  with  warm 

blood, 

Permitted  in  another  age  and  clime  ? 
Why  cite  that  law  with  which  the  bigot  Jew 
Rebuked  the  Pagan's  mercy,  when  he  knew 
No  evil  in  the  Just  One  ?  Wherefore  turn 
To  the  dark,  cruel  past  ?  Can  ye  not  learn 
From  the  pure  Teacher's  life  how  mildly 

free 

Is  the  great  Gospel  of  Humanity  ? 
The  Flamen's  knife  is  bloodless,   and  no 

more 

Mexitli's  altars  soak  with  human  gore, 
No  more  the  ghastly  sacrifices  smoke 
Through  the  green  arches  of  the  Druid '  j 

oak  ; 

And  ye  of  milder  faith,  with  your  high  claim 
Of  prophet-utterance  in  the  Holiest  name, 
Will  ye  become  the  Druids  of  our  time  ! 
Set  up  your  scaffold-altars  in  our  land, 
And,  consecrators  of  Law's  darkest  crime, 
Urge  to  its  loathsome  work  the  hang 
man's  hand  ? 

Beware,  lest  human  nature,  roused  at  last, 
From  its  peeled  shoulder  your  encumbrance 

cast, 
And,   sick  to  loathing  of  your  cry  for 

blood, 
Rank  ye  with  those  who  led  their  victims 

round 

The  Celt's  red  altar  and  the  Indian's  mound, 
Abhorred  of  Earth  and  Heaven,  a  pagaa 

brotherhood ! 


354 


SONGS   OF   LABOR   AND   REFORM 


SEED-TIME   AND   HARVEST 

As  o'er  his  furrowed  fields  which  lie 
Beneath  a  coldly  dropping  sky, 
Yet  chill  with  winter's  melted  snow, 
The  husbandman  goes  forth  to  sow, 

Thus,  Freedom,  on  the  bitter  blast 
The  ventures  of  thy  seed  we  cast, 
And  trust  to  warmer  sun  and  rain 
To  swell  the  germs  and  fill  the  grain. 

Who  calls  thy  glorious  service  hard  ? 
Who  deems  it  not  its  own  reward  ? 
Who,  for  its  trials,  counts  it  less 
A  cause  of  praise  and  thankfulness  ? 

It  may  not  be  our  lot  to  wield 
The  sickle  in  the  ripened  field  ; 
Nor  ours  to  hear,  on  summer  eves, 
The  reaper's  song  among  the  sheaves. 

Yet  where  our  duty's  task  is  wrought 
In  unison  with  God's  great  thought, 
The  near  and  future  blend  in  one, 
And  whatsoe'er  is  willed,  is  done  ! 

And  ours  the  grateful  service  whence 
Comes  day  by  day  the  recompense  ; 
The  hope,  the  trust,  the  purpose  stayed, 
The  fountain  and  the  noonday  shade. 

And  were  this  life  the  utmost  span, 
The  only  end  and  aim  of  man, 
Better  the  toil  of  fields  like  these 
Than  waking  dream  and  slothful  ease. 

But  life,  though  falling  like  our  grain, 
Like  that  revives  and  springs  again  ; 
And,  early  called,  how  blest  are  they 
Who  wait  in  heaven  their  harvest-day  ! 

TO    THE  REFORMERS    OF    ENG 
LAND 

This  poem  was  addressed  to  those  who  like 
Richard  Cobden  and  John  Brig-lit  were  seeking1 
the  reform  of  political  evils  in  Great  Britain  by 
peaceful  and  Christian  means.  It  will  be  re 
membered  that  the  Anti-Corn-Law  League 
was  in  the  midst  of  its  labors  at  this  time. 

€rOD  bless  ye,  brothers  !  in  the  fight 
Ye  're  waging  now,  ye  cannot  fail. 


For  better  is  your  sense  of  right 
Than  king-craft's  triple  mail. 

Than  tyrant's  law,  or  bigot's  ban, 
More  mighty  is  your  simplest  word; 

The  free  heart  of  an  honest  man 
Than  crosier  or  the  sword. 

Go,  let  your  blinded  Church  rehearse 
The  lesson  it  has  learned  so  well  ; 

It  moves  not  with  its  prayer  or  curse 
The  gates  of  heaven  or  hell. 

Let  the  State  scaffold  rise  again  ; 

Did  Freedom  die  when  Russell  died? 
Forget  ye  how  the  blood  of  Vane 

From  earth's  green  bosom  cried  ? 

The  great  hearts  of  your  olden  time 
Are  beating  with  you,  full  and  strong 

All  holy  memories  and  sublime 
And  glo  ious  round  ye  throng. 

The  bluff,  bold  men  of  Runnymede 
Are  with  ye  still  in  times  like  these  ; 

The  shades  of  England's  mighty  dead, 
Your  cloud  of  witnesses  ! 

The  truths  ye  urge  are  borne  abroad 
By  every  wind  and  every  tide  ; 

The  voice  of  Nature  and  of  God 
Speaks  out  upon  your  side. 

The  weapons  which  your  hands  have  found 
Are     those    which     Heaven    itself    has 

wrought, 

Light,    Truth,    and    Love  ;     your    battle 
ground 
The  free,  broad  field  of  Thought. 

No  partial,  selfish  purpose  breaks 
The  simple  beauty  of  your  plan,. 

Nor  lie  from  throne  or  altar  shakes 
Your  steady  faith  in  man. 

The  languid  pulse  of  England  starts 

And    bounds    beneath    your    words    of 
power, 

The  beating  of  her  million  hearts 
Is  with  you  at  this  hour  ! 

O  ye  who,  with  unrloubting  eyes, 

Through    present    cloud   anU    gathering 
storm, 


THE   HUMAN    SACRIFICE 


355 


Behold  the  span  of  Freedom's  skies, 
And  sunshine  soft  and  warm  ; 

Press  bravely  onward  !  not  in  vain 
Your  generous  trust  in  human-kind  ; 

The  good  which  bloodshed  could  not  gain 
Your  peaceful  zeal  shall  find. 

Press  on  !  the  triumph  shall  be  won 
Of  common  rights  and  equal  laws, 

The  glorious  dream  of  Harrington, 
And  Sidney's  good  old  cause. 

Bleosing  the  cotter  and  the  crown, 
Sweetening  worn  Labor's  bitter  cup  j 

And,  plucking  not  the  highest  down, 
Lifting  the  lowest  up. 

Press  DII  !  and  we  who  may  not  share 
The  toil  or  glory  of  your  fight 

May  ask,  at  least,  in  earnest  prayer, 
God's  blessing  on  the  right ! 


THE    HUMAN    SACRIFICE 

Some  leading  sectarian  papers  had  lately 
published  the  letter  of  a  clergyman,  giving 
an  account  of  his  attendance  upon  a  criminal 
(whc  had  committed  murder  during  a  fit  of 
intoxication),  at  the  time  of  his  execution,  in 
western  New  York.  The  writer  describes  the 
agony  of  the  wretched  being,  his  abortive  at 
tempts  at  praver,  his  appeal  for  life,  his  fear 
of  a  violent  death  ;  and,  after  declaring  his 
belief  that  the  poor  victim  died  without  hope 
of  salvation,  concludes  with  a  warm  eulogy 
upon  the  gallows,  being  more  than  ever  con 
vinced  of  its  utility  by  the  awful  dread  and 
horror  which  it  inspired. 


FAR  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell, 

By  grassy  lane  and  sunny  stream, 
Blown  clover  field  and  strawberry  dell, 
And  green  and  meadow  freshness,  fell 

The  footsteps  of  his  dream. 
Again  from  careless  feet  the  dew 

Of  summer's  misty  morn  he  shook  ; 
Again  with  merry  heart  he  threw 

His  light  line  in  the  rippling  brook. 
Back  crowded  all  his  school-day  joys  ; 

He  urged  the  ball  and  quoit  again, 
And  heard  the  shout  of  laughing  boys 

Come  ringing  down  the  walnut  glen. 


Again  he  felt  the  western  breeze, 

With  scent  of  flowers  and  crisping  hay  ; 
And  down  again  through  wind-stirred  trees 

He  saw  the  quivering  sunlight  play. 
An  angel  in  home's  vine-hung  door, 
He  saw  his  sister  smile  once  more  ; 
Once  more  the  truant's  brown-locked  head 
Upon  his  mother's  knees  was  laid, 
And  sweetly  lulled  to  slumber  there, 
With  evening's  holy  hymn  and  prayer ! 


He  woke.     At  once  on  heart  and  brain 
The  present  Terror  rushed  again  ; 
Clanked  on  his  limbs  the  felon's  chain  ! 
He  woke,  to  hear  the  church-tower  tell 
Time's  footfall  on  the  conscious  bell, 
And,  shuddering,  feel  that  clanging  din 
His  life's  last  hour  had  ushered  in  ; 
To  see  within  his  prison-yard, 
Through  the  small  window,  iron  barred, 
The  gallows  shadow  rising  dim 
Between  the  sunrise  heaven  and  him  ; 
A  horror  in  God's  blessed  air  ; 

A  blackness  in  his  morning  light ; 
Like  some  foul  devil-altar  there 

Built  up  by  demon  hands  at  night. 

And,  maddened  by  that  evil  sight, 
Dark,  horrible,  confused,  and  strange. 
A  chaos  of  wild,  weltering  change, 
All  power  of  check  and  guidance  gone, 
Dizzy  arid  blind,  his  mind  swept  on. 
In  vain  he  strove  to  breathe  a  prayer, 

In  vain  he  turned  the  Holy  Book, 
He  only  heard  the  gallows-stair 

Creak  as  the  wind  its  timbers  shook. 
No  dream  for  him  of  sin  forgiven, 

While  still  that  baleful  spectre  stood, 

With   its   hoarse    murmur,    "  Blood   fot 

Blood!" 
Between  him  and  the  pitying  Heaven  ! 

in 

Low  on  his  dungeon  floor  he  knelt, 

And  smote  his  breast,  and  on  his  chain. 
Whose  iron  clasp  he  always  felt, 

His  hot  tears  fell  like  rain  ; 
And  near  him,  with  the  cold,  calm  look 
And  tone  of  one  whose  formal  part, 
Unwarmed,  unsoftened  of  the  heart, 
Is  measured  out  by  rule  and  book, 
With  placid  lip  and  tranquil  blood, 
The  hangman's  ghostly  ally  stood, 
Blessing  with  solemn  text  and  word 
The  gallows-drop  and  strangling  cord  ; 


356 


SONGS    OF   LABOR   AND    REFORM 


Lending  the  sacred  Gospel's  awe 
And  sanction  to  the  crime  of  Law. 

IV 

He  saw  the  victim's  tortured  brow, 

The  sweat  of  anguish  starting  there, 
The  record  of  a  nameless  woe 
In  the  dim  eye's  imploring  stare, 
Seen   hideous   through   the    long,  damp 

hair,  — 

Fingers  of  ghastly  skin  and  bone 
Working  and  writhing  on  the  stone  ! 
And  heard,  by  mortal  terror  wrung 
From  heaving  breast  and  stiffened  tongue, 
The  choking  sob  and  low  hoarse  prayer  ; 
As  o'er  his  half-crazed  fancy  came 
A  vision  of  the  eternal  flame, 
Its  smoking  cloud  of  agonies, 
Its  demon  worm  that  never  dies, 
The  everlasting  rise  and  fall 
Of  fire-waves  round  the  infernal  wall  ; 
While  high  above  that  dark  red  flood, 
Black,  giant-like,  the  gallows  stood  ; 
Two  busy  fiends  attending  there  : 
One  with  cold  mocking  rite  and  prayer, 
The  other  with  impatient  grasp, 
Tightening    the    death -rope's     strangling 
clasp. 


The  unfelt  rite  at  length  was  done, 

The  prayer  unheard  at  length  was  said, 
An  hour  had  passed  :  the  noonday  sun 

Smote  on  the  features  of  the  dead  ! 
And  he  who  stood  the  doomed  beside, 
Calm  ganger  of  the  swelling  tide 
Of  mortal  agony  and  fear, 
Heeding  with  curious  eye  and  ear 
Whate'er  revealed  the  keen  excess 
Of  man's  extremest  wretchedness  : 
And  who  in  that  dark  anguish  saw 

An  earnest  of  the  victim's  fate, 
The  vengeful  terrors  of  God's  law, 

The  kindlings  of  Eternal  hate, 
The  first  drops  of  that  fiery  rain 
Which  beats  the  dark  red  realm  of  pain, 
Did  he  uplift  his  earnest  cries 

Against  the  crime  of  Law,  which  gave 

His  brother  to  that  fearful  grave, 
Whereon  Hope's  moonlight  never  lies, 

And  Faith's  white  blossoms  never  wave 
To  the  soft  breath  of  Memory's  sighs  ; 
Which  sent  a  spirit  marred  and  stained, 
By  fiends  of  sin  possessed,  profaned, 
In  madness  and  in  blindness  stark, 


Into  the  silent,  unknown  dark  ? 

No,  from  the  wild  and  shrinking  dread, 

With  which  he  saw  the  victim  led 

Beneath  the  dark  veil  which  divides 
Ever  the  living  from  the  dead, 

And  Nature's  solemn  secret  hides, 
The  man  of  prayer  can  only  draw 
New  reasons  for  his  bloody  law  ; 
New  faith  in  staying  Murder's  hand 
By  murder  at  that  Law's  command  ; 
New  reverence  for  the  gallows-rope, 
As  human  nature's  latest  hope  ; 
Last  relic  of  the  good  old  time, 
When  Power  found  license  for  its  crime, 
And  held  a  writhing  world  in  check 
By  that  fell  cord  about  its  neck  ; 
Stifled  Sedition's  rising  shout, 
Choked  the  young  breath  of  Freedom  out, 
And    timely    checked    the    words    whicb 


sprung 
Hei 


From  Heresy's  forbidden  tongue  ; 
While  in  its  noose  of  terror  bound, 
The  Church  its  cherished  union  found, 
Conforming,  on  the  Moslem  plan, 
The  motley-colored  mind  of  man, 
Not  by  the  Koran  and  the  Sword, 
But  by  the  Bible  and  the  Cord  ! 

VI 

O  Thou  !  at  whose  rebuke  the  grave 
Back  to  warm  life  its  sleeper  gave, 
Beneath  whose  sad  and  tearful  glance 
The  cold  and  changed  countenance 
Broke  the  still  horror  of  its  trance, 
And,  waking,  saw  with  joy  above, 
A  brother's  face  of  tenderest  love  ; 
Thou,  unto  whom  the  blind  and  lame, 
The  sorrowing  and  the  sin-sick  came. 
And  from  Thy  very  garment's  hem 
Drew  life  and  healing  unto  them, 
The  burden  of  Thy  holy  faith 
Was  love  and  life,  not  hate  and  death  ; 
Man's  demon  ministers  of  pain, 

The  fiends  of  his  revenge,  were  sent 

From  thy  pure  Gospel's  element 
To  their  dark  home  again. 
Thy  name  is  Love  !     What,  then,  is  he, 

Who  in  that  name  the  gallows  rears, 
An  awful  altar  built  to  Thee, 

With  sacrifice  of  blood  and  tears  ? 
Oh,  once  again  Thy  healing  lay 

On   the    blind   eyes   which    knew    Thee 

not, 
And  let  the  light  of  Thy  pure  day 

Melt  in  upon  his  darkened  thought. 


THE   SHOEMAKERS 


357 


Soften  his  hard,  cold  heart,  and  show 
The  power  which  in  forbearance  lies, 

And  let  him  feel  that  mercy  now 
Is  better  than  old  sacrifice  ! 

VII 

As  on  the  White  Sea's  charmed  shore, 

The  Parsee  sees  his  holy  hill 
With  dunnest  smoke-clouds  curtained  o'er, 
Yet  knows  beneath  them,  evermore, 

The  low,  pale  fire  is  quivering  still  ; 
So,  underneath  its  clouds  of  sin, 

The  heart  of  man  retaineth  yet 
'gleams  of  its  holy  origin  ; 

And  half-quenched  stars  that  never  set, 
)im  colors  of  its  faded  bow, 

And  early  beauty,  linger  there, 
•Ind  o'er  its  wasted,  desert  blow 

Faint  breathings  of  its  morning  air. 
Oh,  never  yet  upon  the  scroll 
Of  the  sin- stained,  but  priceless  soul, 

Hath  Heaven  inscribed  "  Despair  !  " 
Cast  not  the  clouded  gem  away, 
Quench  not  the  dim  but  living  ray,  — - 

My  brother  man.  Beware  ! 
With  that  deep  voice  which  from  the  skies 
Forbade  the  Patriarch's  sacrifice, 

God's  angel  cries,  Forbear  ! 


SONGS  OF  LABOR 

DEDICATION 

Prefixed  to  the  volume  of  which  the  group 
of  six  poems  following  this  prelude  constituted 
the  first  portion. 

I  WOULD  the  gift  I  offer  here 

Might  graces  from  thy  favor  take, 
And,  seen   through  Friendship's  atmos 
phere, 

On  softened  lines  and  coloring,  wear 
The  unaccustomed  light  of  beauty,  for  thy 
sake. 

Few  leaves  of  Fancy's  spring  remain  : 

But  what  I  have  I  give  to  thee, 
The    o'er-sunned    bloom    of     summer's 

plain, 

And  paler  flowers,  the  latter  rain 
Calls   from   the  westering   slope    of   life's 
autumnal  lea. 

Above  the  fallen  groves  of  green, 

Where  youth's  enchanted  forest  stood, 


Dry  root  and  mossed  trunk  betwc  en, 
A  sober  after-growth  is  seen, 
As  springs    the  pine  where  falls  the  gay 
leafed  maple  wood  ! 

Yet  birds  will  sing,  and  breezes  play 

Their  leaf-harps  in  the  sombre  tree  ; 
And  through  the  bleak  and  wintry  day 
It  keeps  its  steady  green  alway,  — 
So,  even   my    after-thoughts    may  have    a 
charm  for  thee. 

Art's  perfect  forms  no  moral  need, 

And  beauty  is  its  own  excuse  ; 
But  for  the  dull  and  flowerless  weed 
Some  healing  virtue  still  must  plead, 
And  the  rough  ore  must  find  its  honors*  in 
its  use. 

So  haply  these,  my  simple  lays 

Of  homely  toil,  may  serve  to  show 
The  orchard  bloom  and  tasselled  maize 
That  skirt  and  gladden  duty's  ways, 
The    unsung    beauty    hid    life's    commoD 
things  below. 

Haply  from  them  the  toiler,  bent 

Above  his  forge  or  plough,  may  gain 
A  manlier  spirit  of  content, 
And  feel  that  life  is  wisest  spent 
Where    the    strong   working   hand   maket 
strong  the  working  brain. 

The  doom  which  to  the  guilty  pair 
Without  the  walls  of  Eden  came, 
Transforming  sinless  ease  to  care 
And  rugged  toil,  no  more  shall  bear 
The  burden  of  old  crime,  or  mark  of  pri 
mal  shame. 

A  blessing  now,  a  curse  no  more  ; 

Since    He,    whose    name   we   breathe 

with  awe, 

The  coarse  mechanic  vesture  wore, 
A  poor  man  toiling  with  the  poor, 
In  labor,  as  in  prayer,  fulfilling  the  same 
law. 


THE    SHOEMAKERS 

Ho  !  workers  of  the  old  time  styled 
The  Gentle  Craft  of  Leather  ! 

Young  brothers  of  the  ancient  guild, 
Stand  forth  once  more  together  ! 


358 


SONGS   OF  LABOR   AND   REFORM 


Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  olden  merry  manner  ! 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  your  blazoned  banner  ! 

Rap,  rap  !  upon  the  well-worn  stone 

How  falls  the  polished  hammer  ! 
Rap,  rap  !  the  measured  sound  has  grown 

A  quick  and  merry  clamor. 
Now  shape  the  sole  !  now  deftly  curl 

The  glossy  vamp  around  it, 
And  bless  the  while  the  bright-eyed  girl 

Whose  gentle  fingers  bound  it  ! 

For  you,  along  the  Spanish  main 

A  hundred  keels  are  ploughing  ; 
For  you,  the  Indian  on  the  plain 

His  lasso-coil  is  throwing  ; 
For  you,  deep  glens  with  hemlock  dark 

The  woodman's  fire  is  lighting  ; 
For  you,  upon  the  oak's  gray  bark, 

The  woodman's  axe  is  smiting. 

For  you,  from  Carolina's  pine 

The  rosin-gum  is  stealing  ; 
For  you,  the  dark-eyed  Florentine 

Her  silken  skein  is  reeling  ; 
For  you,  the  dizzy  goatherd  roams 

His  rugged  Alpine  ledges  ; 
For  you,  round  all  her  shepherd  homes, 

Bloom  England's  thorny  hedges. 

The  foremost  still,  by  day  or  night, 

On  moated  mound  or  heather, 
Where'er  the  need  of  trampled  right 

Brought  toiling  men  together  ; 
Where  the  free  burghers  from  the  wall 

Defied  the  mail-clad  master, 
Than  yours,  at  Freedom's  trumpet-call, 

No  craftsmen  rallied  faster. 

Let  foplings  sneer,  let  fools  deride, 

Ye  heed  no  idle  scorner  ; 
Free  hands  and  hearts  are  still  your  pride, 

And  duty  done  your  honor. 
Ye  dare  to  trust,  for  honest  fame, 

The  jury  Time  empanels, 
And  leave  to  truth  each  noble  name 

Which  glorifies  your  annals. 

Thy  songs,  Hans  Sachs,  are  living  yet, 
In  strong  and  hearty  German  ; 

And  Bloomfield's  lay,  and  Gifford's  wit, 
And  patriot  fame  of  Sherman  ; 

Still  from  his  book,  a  mystic  seer, 


The  soul  of  Behmen  teaches, 
And  England's  priestcraft  shakes  to  hear 
Of  Fox's  leathern  breeches. 

The  foot  is  yours  ;  where'er  it  falls, 

It  treads  your  well- wrought  leather, 
On  earthen  floor,  in  marble  halls 

On  carpet,  or  on  heather. 
Still  there  the  sweetest  charm  is  found 

Of  matron  grace  or  vestal's, 
As  Hebe's  foot  bore  nectar  round 

Among  the  old  celestials  ! 

Rap,  rap  !  —  your  stout  and  bluff  brogan, 

With  footsteps  slow  and  weary, 
May  wander  where  the  sky's  blue  span 

Shuts  down  upon  the  prairie. 
On  Beauty's  foot  your  slippers  glance, 

By  Saratoga's  fountains, 
Or  twinkle  down  the  summer  dance 

Beneath  the  Crystal  Mountains  ! 

The  red  brick  to  the  mason's  hand, 

The  brown  earth  to  the  tiller's, 
The  shoe  in  yours  shall  wealth  command. 

Like  fairy  Cinderella's  ! 
As  they  who  shunned  the  household  maid 

Beheld  the  crown  upon  her, 
So  all  shall  see  your  toil  repaid 

With  hearth  and  home  and  honor. 

Then  let  the  toast  be  freely  quaffed, 

In  water  cool  and  brimming,  — 
"  All  honor  to  the  good  old  Craft, 

Its  merry  men  and  women  !  " 
Call  out  again  your  long  array, 

In  the  old  time's  pleasant  manner  : 
Once  more,  on  gay  St.  Crispin's  day, 

Fling  out  his  blazoned  banner  ! 


THE   FISHERMEN 

HURRAH  !  the  seaward  breezes 

Sweep  down  the  bay  amain  ; 
Heave  up,  my  lads,  the  anchor  ! 

Run  up  the  sail  again  ! 
Leave  to  the  lubber  landsmen 

The  rail-car  and  the  steed  ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed. 

From  the  hill-top  looks  the  steeple, 
And  the  lighthouse  from  the  sand  ; 


THE  LUMBERMEN 


359 


And  the  scattered  pines  are  waving 
Their  farewell  from  the  land. 

One  glance,  my  lads,  behind  us, 
For  the  homes  we  leave  one  sigh, 

Ere  we  take  the  change  and  chances 
Of  the  ocean  and  the  sky. 

Now,  brothers,  for  the  icebergs 

Of  frozen  Labrador, 
Floating  spectral  in  the  moonshine, 

Along  the  low,  black  shore  ! 
Where  like  snow  the  gannet's  feathers 

On  Brador's  rocks  are  shed, 
And  the  noisy  inurr  are  flying, 

Like  black  sends,  overhead  ; 

Where  in  mist  the  rock  is  hiding, 

And  the  sharp  reef  lurks  below, 
And  the  white  squall  smites  in  summer, 

And  the  autumn  tempests  blow  ; 
Where,  through  gray  and  rolling  vapor, 

From  evening  unto  morn, 
A  thousand  boats  are  hailing, 

Horn  answering  unto  horn. 

Hurrah  !  for  the  Red  Island, 

With  the  white  cross  on  its  crown  ! 
Hurrah  !  for  Meccatina, 

And  its  mountains  bare  and  brown  ! 
Where  the  Caribou's  tall  antlers 

O'er  the  dwarf-wood  freely  toss, 
And  the  footstep  of  the  Mickmack 

Has  no  sound  upon  the  moss. 

There  we  '11  drop  our  lines,  and  gather 

Old  Ocean's  treasures  in, 
Where'er  the  mottled  mackerel 

Turns  up  a  steel-dark  fin. 
The  sea  's  our  field  of  harvest, 

Its  scaly  tribes  our  graii?  ; 
We  '11  reap  the  teeming  waters 

As  at  home  they  reap  the  plain  ! 

Our  wet  hands  spread  the  carpet, 

And  light  the  hearth  of  home  ; 

From  our  fish,  as  in  the  old  time, 

The  silver  coin  shall  come. 

As  the  demon  fled  the  chamber 

^  Where  the  fish  of  Tobit  lay, 

So  ours  from  all  our  dwellings 

Shall  frighten  Want  away. 

Though  the  mist  upon  our  jackets 
In  the  bitter  air  congeals, 


And  our  lines  wind  stiff  and  slowly 
From  off  the  frozen  reels  ; 

Though  the  fog  be  dark  around  us, 
And  the  storm  blow  high  and  loud, 

We  will  whistle  down  the  wild  wind, 
And  laugh  beneath  the  cloud  ! 

In  the  darkness  as  in  daylight, 

On  the  water  as  on  land, 
God's  eye  is  looking  on  us, 

And  beneath  us  is  His  hand  ! 
Death  will  find  us  soon  or  later, 

On  the  deck  or  in  the  cot  ; 
And  we  cannot  meet  him  better 

Than  in  working  out  our  lot. 

Hurrah  !  hurrah  !  the  west-wind 

Comes  freshening  down  the  bay, 
The  rising  sails  are  filling  ; 

Give  way,  my  lads,  give  way  ! 
Leave  the  coward  landsman  clinging 

To  the  dull  earth,  like  a  weed  ; 
The  stars  of  heaven  shall  guide  us, 

The  breath  of  heaven  shall  speed  ! 


THE    LUMBERMEN 

WILDLY  round  our  woodland  quarters 

bad-voiced  Autumn  grieves  ; 
Thickly  down  these  swelling  waters 

Float  his  fallen  leaves. 
Through  the  tall  and  naked  timber, 

Column-like  and  old, 
Gleam  the  sunsets  of  November, 

From  their  skies  of  gold. 

O'er  us,  to  the  southland  heading, 

Screams  the  gray  wild-goose  ; 
On  the  night-frost  sounds  the  treading 

Of  the  brindled  moose. 
Noiseless  creeping,  while  we  're  sleeping; 

Frost  his  task-work  plies  ; 
Soon,  his  icy  bridges  heaping, 

Shall  our  log-piles  rise. 

When,  with  sounds  of  smothered  thunder. 

On  some  night  of  rain, 
Lake  and  river  break  asunder 

Winter's  weakened  chain, 
Down  the  wild  March  flood  shall  bear  them 

To  the  saw-mill's  wheel, 
Or  where  Steam,  the  slave,  shall  tear  them 

With  his  teeth  of  steel 


360 


SONGS   OF   LABOR   AND   REFORM 


Be  it  starlight,  be  it  moonlight, 

111  these  vales  below, 
When  the  earliest  beams  of  sunlight 

Streak  the  mountain's  snow, 
Crisps  the  hoar-frost,  keen  and  early, 

To  our  hurraing  feet, 
And  the  forest  echoes  clearly 

All  our  blows  repeat. 

Where  the  crystal  Ambijejis 

Stretches  broad  and  clear, 
And  Millnoket's  pine-black  ridges 

Hide  the  browsing  deer  : 
Where,  through  lakes  and  wide  morasses, 

Or  through  rocky  walls, 
Swift  and  strong,  Penobscot  passes 

White  with  foamy  falls  ; 

Where,  through  clouds,  are  glimpses  given 

Of  Katahdin's  sides,  — 
Rock  and  forest  piled  to  heaven, 

Torn  and  ploughed  by  slides  ! 
Far  below,  the  Indian  trapping, 

In  the  sunshine  warm  ; 
Far  above,  the  snow-cloud  wrapping 

Half  the  peak  in  storm  ! 

Where  are  mossy  carpets  better 

Than  the  Persian  weaves, 
And  than  Eastern  perfumes  sweeter 

Seem  the  fading  leaves  ; 
And  a  music  wild  and  solemn, 

From  the  pine-tree's  height, 
Rolls  its  vast  and  sea-like  volume 

On  the  wind  of  night  ; 

Make  we  here  our  camp  of  winter  ; 

And,  through  sleet  and  snow, 
Pitchy  knot  and  beechen  splinter 

On  our  hearth  shall  glow. 
Here,  with  mirth  to  lighten  duty, 

We  shall  lack  alone 
Woman's  smile  and  girlhood's  beauty, 

Childhood's  lisping  tone. 

6ut  their  hearth  is  brighter  burning 

For  our  toil  to-day  ; 
And  the  welcome  of  returning 

Shall  our  loss  repay, 
When,  like  seamen  from  the  waters, 

From  the  woods  we  come, 
Greeting  sisters,  wives,  and  daughters, 

Angels  of  our  home  ! 


Not  for  us  the  measured  ringing 

From  the  village  spire, 
Not  for  us  the  Sabbath  singing 

Of  the  sweet-voiced  choir  ; 
Ours  the  old,  majestic  temple, 

Where  God's  brightness  shines 
Down  the  dome  so  grand  and  ample, 

Propped  by  lofty  pines  ! 

Through  each  branch-enwoven  skylight, 

Speaks  He  in  the  breeze, 
As  of  old  beneath  the  twilight 

Of  lost  Eden's  trees  ! 
For  His  ear,  the  inward  feeling 

Needs  no  outward  tongue  ; 
He  can  see  the  spirit  kneeling 

While  the  axe  is  swung. 

Heeding  truth  alone,  and  turning 

From  the  false  and  dim, 
Lamp  of  toil  or  altar  burning 

Are  alike  to  Him. 
Strike  then,  comrades  !      Trade  is  waiting 

On  our  rugged  toil  ; 
Far  ships  waiting  for  the  freighting 

Of  our  woodland  spoil ! 

Ships  whose  traffic  links  these  highlands, 

Bleak  and  cold,  of  ours, 
With  the  citron-planted  islands 

Of  a  clime  of  flowers  ; 
To  our  frosts  the  tribute  bringing 

Of  eternal  heats ; 
In  our  lap  of  winter  flinging 

Tropic  fruits  and  sweets. 

Cheerly,  on  the  axe  of  labor, 

Let  the  sunbeams  dance, 
Better  than  the  flash  of  sabre 

Or  the  gleam  of  lance  ! 
Strike  !     Writh  every  blow  is  given 

Freer  sun  and  sky, 
And  the  long-hid  earth  to  heaven 

Looks,  with  wondering  eye  ! 

Loud  behind  us  grow  the  murmurs 

Of  the  age  to  come  ; 
Clang  of  smiths,  and  tread  of  farmers. 

Bearing  lr  ,rvest  home  ! 
Here  her  virgin  lap  with  treasures 

Shall  the  green  earth  fill  ; 
Waving  wheat  and  golden  maize-ears 

Crown  each  beechen  hill. 


THE   SHIP-BUILDERS 


Keep  who  will  the  city's  alleys, 

Take  the  smooth-shorn  plain  ; 
Give  to  us  the  cedarn  valleys, 

Rocks  and  hills  of  Maine  ! 
In  our  North-land,  wild  and  woody, 

Let  us  still  have  part  : 
Rugged  nurse  and  mother  sturdy, 

Hold  us  to  thy  heart  ! 

Oh,  our  free  hearts  beat  the  warmer 

For  thy  breach  of  snow  ; 
And  our  tread  is  all  the  firmer 

For  thy  rocks  below. 
Freedom,  hand  in  hand  with  labor, 

Walketh  strong  and  brave  ; 
On  the  forehead  of  his  neighbor 

No  man  write  th  Slave  ! 

Lo,  the  day  breaks  !  old  Katahdin's 

Pine-trees  show  its  fires, 
While  from  these  dim  forest  gardens 

Rise  their  blackened  spires. 
Up,  my  comrades  !  up  and  doing  ! 

Manhood's  rugged  play 
Still  renewing,  bravely  hewing 

Through  the  world  our  way  ! 


THE    SHIP-BUILDERS 

THE  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east, 

The  earth  is  gray  below, 
And,  spectral  in  the  river-mist, 

The  ship's  white  timbers  show. 
Then  let  the  sounds  of  measured  stroke 

And  grating  saw  begin  ; 
The  broad-axe  to  the  gnarled  oak, 

The  mallet  to  the  pin  ! 

Hark  !  roars  the  bellows,  blast  on  blast, 

The  sooty  smithy  jars, 
And  fire-sparks,  rising  far  and  fast, 

Are  fading  with  the  stars. 
All  day  for  us  the  smith  shall  stand 

Beside  that  flashing  forge  ; 
All  day  for  us  his  heavy  hand 

The  groaning  anvil  scourge. 

From  far-off  hills,  the  panting  team 

For  us  is  toiling  near  ; 
For  us  the  raftsmen  down  the  stream 

Their  island  barges  steer. 
Rings  out  for  us  the  axe-man's  stroke 

In  forests  old  and  still  : 


For  us  the  century-circled  oak 
Falls  crashing  down  his  hill. 

Up  !  up  !  in  nobler  toil  than  ours 

No  craftsmen  bear  a  part  : 
We  make  of  Nature's  giant  powers 

The  slaves  of  human  Art. 
Lay  rib  to  rib  and  beam  to  beam, 

And  drive  the  treenails  free  ; 
Nor  faithless  joint  nor  yawning  seam 

Shall  tempt  the  searching  sea  ! 

Where'er  the  keel  of  our  good  ship 

The  sea's  rough  field  shall  plough  ; 
Where'er  her  tossing  spars  shall  drip 

With  salt-spray  caught  below  ; 
That  ship  must  heed  her  master's  beck, 

Her  helm  obey  his  hand, 
And  seamen  tread  her  reeling  deck 

As  if  they  trod  the  land. 

Her  oaken  ribs  the  vulture-beak 

Of  Northern  ice  may  peel  ; 
The  sunken  rock  and  coral  peak 

May  grate  along  her  keel  ; 
And  know  we  well  the  painted  shell 

We  give  to  wind  and  wave, 
Must  float,  the  sailor's  citadel, 

Or  sink,  the  sailor's  grave  ! 

Ho  !  strike  away  the  bars  and  blocks, 

And  set  the  good  ship  free  ! 
Why  lingers  on  these  dusty  rocks 

The  young  bride  of  the  sea  ? 
Look  !  how  she  moves  adown  the  grooves, 

In  graceful  beauty  now  ! 
How  lowly  on  the  breast  she  loves 

Sinks  down  her  virgin  prow  ! 

God  bless  her  !  wheresoe'er  the  breeze 

Her  snowy  wing  shall  fan, 
Aside  the  frozen  Hebrides, 

Or  sultry  Hindostan  ! 
Where'er,  in  mart  or  on  the  main, 

With  peaceful  flag  unfurled, 
She  helps  to  wind  the  silken  chain 

Of  commerce  round  the  world  ! 

Speed  on  the  ship  !     But  let  her  bear 

No  merchandise  of  sin, 
No  groaning  cargo  of  despair 

Her  roomy  hold  within  ; 
No  Lethean  drug  for  Eastern  lands, 

Nor  poison-draught  for  ours  ; 


362 


SONGS    OF   LABOR  AND    REFORM 


But  honest  fruits  of  toiling  hands 
And  Nature's  sun  and  showers. 

Be  hers  the  Prairie's  golden  grain, 

The  Desert's  golden  sand, 
The  clustered  fruits  of  sunny  Spain, 

The  spice  of  Morning-laud  ! 
Her  pathway  on  the  open  main 

May  blessings  follow  free, 
And  glad  hearts  welcome  back  again 

Her  white  sails  from  the  sea  ! 


THE    DROVERS 

THROUGH  heat  and  cold,  and  shower  and 
sun, 

Still  onward  cheerly  driving  ! 
There  's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 
But  see  !  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us  ; 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 

Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 
And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
The  landlord  beckons  from  his  door, 

His  beechen  fire  is  glowing  ; 
These  ample  barns,  with  feed  in  store, 

Are  filled  to  overflowing. 

From  many  a  valley  frowned  across 

By  brows  of  rugged  mountains  ; 
From     hillsides    where,    through    spongy 
moss, 

Gush  out  the  river  fountains  ; 
From  quiet  farm-fields,  green  and  low, 

And  bright  with  blooming  clover  ; 
From  vales  of  corn  the  wandering  crow 

No  richer  hovers  over,  — 

Day  after  day  our  way  has  been 

O'er  many  a  hill  and  hollow  ; 
By  lake  and  stream,  by  wood  and  glen, 

Our  stately  drove  we  follow. 
Through  dust-clouds  rising  thick  and  dun, 

As  smoke  of  battle  o'er  us, 
Their  white  horns  glisten  in  the  sun, 

Like  plumes  and  crests  before  us. 

We  see  them  slowly  climb  the  hill, 
As  slow  behind  it  sinking  ; 


Or,  thronging  close,  from  roadside  rill, 

Or  sunny  lakelet,  drinking. 
Now  crowding  in  the  narrow  road, 

In  thick  and  struggling  masses, 
They  glare  upon  the  teamster's  load, 

Or  rattling  coach  that  passes. 

Anon,  with  toss  of  horn  and  tail, 

And  paw  of  hoof,  and  bellow, 
They  leap  some  farmer's  broken  pale, 

O'er  meadow-close  or  fallow. 
Forth  comes  the  startled  goodman  ;  forth 

Wife,  children,  house-dog,  sally, 
Till  once  more  on  their  dusty  path 

The  baffled  truants  rally. 

We  drive  no  starvelings,  scraggy  grown, 

Loose-legged,  and  ribbed  and  bony, 
Like  those  who  grind  their  noses  down 

On  pastures  bare  and  stony,  — 
Lank  oxen,  rough  as  Indian  dogs, 

And  cows  too  lean  for  shadows, 
Disputing  feebly  with  the  frogs 

The  crop  of  saw-grass  meadows  ! 

In  our  good  drove,  so  sleek  and  fair, 

No  bones  of  leanness  rattle  ; 
No  tottering  hide-bound  ghosts  are  there, 

Or  Pharaoh's  evil  cattle. 
Each  stately  beeve  bespeaks  the  hand 

That  fed  him  unrepining  ; 
The  fatness  of  a  goodly  land 

In  each  dun  hide  is  shining. 

We've    sought   them    where,    in   warmest 
nooks, 

The  freshest  feed  is  growing, 
By  sweetest  springs  and  clearest  brooks 

Through  honeysuckle  flowing  ; 
Wherever  hillsides,  sloping  south, 

Are  bright  with  early  grasses, 
Or,  tracking  green  the  lowland's  drouth, 

The  mountain  streamlet  passes. 

But  now  the  day  is  closing  cool, 

The  woods  are  dim  before  us, 
The  white  fog  of  the  wayside  pool 

Is  creeping  slowly  o'er  us. 
Tlifi  cricket  to  the  frog's  bassoon 

His  shrillest  time  is  keeping  ; 
The  sickle  of  yon  setting  moon 

The  meadow-mist  is  reaping. 

The  night  is  falling,  comrades  mine, 
Our  footsore  beasts  are  weary, 


THE  HUSKERS 


363 


And  through  yon  elms  the  tavern  sign 

Looks  out  upon  us  cheery. 
To-morrow,  eastward  with  our  charge 

We  '11  go  to  meet  the  dawning, 
Ere  yet  the  pines  of  Kearsarge 

Have  seen  the  sun  of  morning. 

When  snow-flakes  o'er  the  frozen  earth, 

Instead  of  birds,  are  flitting  ; 
When  children  throng  the  glowing  hearth, 

And  quiet  wives  are  knitting  ; 
While  in  the  fire-light  strong  and  clear 

Young  eyes  of  pleasure  glisten, 
To  tales  of  all  we  see  and  hear 

The  ears  of  home  shall  listen. 

By  many  a  Northern  lake  and  hill, 

From  many  a  mountain  pasture, 
Shall  Fancy  play  the  Drover  still, 

And  speed  the  long  night  faster. 
Then  let  us  on,  through  shower  and  sun, 

And  heat  and  cold,  be  driving  ; 
There's  life  alone  in  duty  done, 

And  rest  alone  in  striving. 


THE  HUSKERS 

IT  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long 

autumnal  rain 
Had   left   the    summer   harvest  -  fields  all 

green  with  grass  again  ; 
The  first  sharp  frosts  had  fallen,  leaving  all 

the  woodlands  gay 
With  the  hues  of  summer's  rainbow,  or  the 

meadow-flowers  of  May. 

Through  a  thin,  dry  mist,  that  morning,  the 

sun  rose  broad  and  red, 
At  first  a  rayless  disk  of  fire,  he  brightened 

as  he  sped  ; 
\et  even  his  noontide  glory  fell  chastened 

and  subdued, 
On   the   cornfields   and  the   orchards   and 

softly  pictured  wood. 

And  all  that  quiet  afternoon,  slow  sloping 

to  the  night, 
He  wove  with  golden  shuttle  the  haze  with 

yellow  light  ; 
Slanting  through  the  painted  beeches,  he 

glorified  the  hill  ; 
And,   beneath   it,    pond   and   meadow  lay 

brighter,  greener  still. 


And  shouting  boys  in  woodland  haunts 
caught  glimpses  of  that  sky, 

Flecked  by  the  many-tinted  leaves,  and 
laughed,  they  knew  not  why  ; 

And  school-girls,  gay  with  aster-flowers, 
beside  the  meadow  brooks, 

Mingled  the  glow  of  autumn  with  the  sun 
shine  of  sweet  looks. 

From  spire  and  barn  looked  westerly  the 
patient  weathercocks  ; 

But  even  the  birches  on  the  hill  stood  mo 
tionless  as  rocks. 

No  sound  was  in  the  woodlands,  save  the 
squirrel's  dropping  shell, 

And  the  yellow  leaves  among  the  boughs, 
low  rustling  as  they  fell. 

The  summer  grains  were  harvested  ;  the 

stubble-fields  lay  dry, 
Where    June    winds   rolled,    in  light   and 

shade,    the    pale    green    waves    of 

rye  ; 
But  still,  on  gentle  hill-slopes,  in  valleys 

fringed  with  wood, 
Ungathered,    bleaching    in     the    sun,    the 

heavy  corn  crop  stood. 

Bent  low,   by    autumn's  wind    and    rain, 

through  husks  that,  dry  and  sere, 
Unfolded  from  their  ripened  charge,  shone 

out  the  yellow  ear  ; 
Beneath,  the  turnip  lay  concealed,  in  many 

a  verdant  fold, 
And   glistened    in   the    slanting   light    the 

pumpkin's  sphere  of  gold. 

There  wrought  the  busy  harvesters  ;  and 

many  a  creaking  wain 
Bore  slowly  to  the  long  barn-floor  its  load 

of  husk  and  grain  ; 
Till  broad  and  red,  as  when  he  rose,  the  sun 

sank  down,  at  last, 
And  like  a  merry  guest's  farewell,  the  day 

in  brightness  passed. 

And  lo  !  as  through  the  western  pines,  on 

meadow,  stream,  and  pond, 
Flamed  the  red  radiance  of  a  sky,  set  all 

afire  beyond, 
Slowly  o'er  the  eastern  sea-bluffs  a  milder 

glory  shone, 
And  the  sunset  and  the  moonrise  were  min' 

gled  into  one  ! 


364 


SONGS   OF   LABOR   AND   REFORM 


As  thus  into  the  quiet  night  the  twilight 

lapsed  away, 
And  deeper  in   the  brightening  moon  the 

tranquil  shadows  lay  ; 
From  many  a  brown  old  farm-house,  and 

hamlet  without  name, 
Their  milking  and  their  home-tasks  done, 

the  merry  huskers  came. 

Swung   o'er   the  heaped-up  harvest,  from 

pitchforks  in  the  mow, 
Shone    dimly   down   the    lanterns    on    the 

pleasant  scene  below  ; 
The   growing   pile    of    husks    behind,    the 

golden  ears  before, 
And    laughing   eyes    and   busy  hands  and 

brown  cheeks  glimmering  o'er. 

Half   hidden,  in   a    quiet   nook,  serene    of 

look  and  heart, 
Talking  their  old  times  over,  the  old  men 

sat  apart  ; 
While    up    and    down  the   unhusked  pile, 

or  nestling  in  its  shade, 
At   hide-and-seek,  with   laugh   and  shout, 

the  happy  children  played. 

Urged    by    the    good    host's   daughter,    a 

maiden  young  and  fair, 
Lifting   to  light   her  sweet  blue  eyes  and 

pride  of  soft  brown  hair, 
The  master  of  the  village  school,  sleek  of 

hair  and  smooth  of  tongue, 
To  the  quaint  tune  of  some  old  psalm,  a 

husking-ballad  sung. 

THE   CORN-SONG 

Heap  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard  ! 

Heap  high  the  golden  corn  ! 
No  richer  gift  has  Autumn  poured 

From  out  her  lavish  horn  j 

Let  other  lands,  exulting,  glean 

The  apple  from  the  pine, 
The  orange  from  its  glossy  green, 

The  cluster  from  the  vine  ; 

We  better  love  the  hardy  gift 

Our  rugged  vales  bestow, 
To  cheer  us  when  the  storm  shall  drift 

Our  harvest- fields  with  snow. 

Through  vales  of  grass  and  meads  of  flowers 
Our  ploughs  their  furrows  made, 


While  on  the  hills  the  sun  and  showers 
Of  changeful  April  played. 

We  dropped  the  seed  o'er  hill  and  plain 

Beneath  the  sun  of  May, 
And  frightened  from  our  sprouting  grain 

The  robber  crows  away. 

All  through  the  long,  bright  days  of  June 
Its  leaves  grew  green  and  fair, 

And  waved  in  hot  midsummer's  noon 
Its  soft  and  yellow  hair. 

And  now,  with  autumn's  moonlit  eves, 

Its  harvest-time  has  come, 
We  pluck  away  the  frosted  leaves, 

And  bear  the  treasure  home. 

There,  when  the  snows  about  us  drift, 

And  winter  winds  are  cold, 
Fair  hands  the  broken  grain  shall  sift, 

And  knead  its  meal  of  gold. 

Let  vapid  idlers  loll  in  silk 

Around  their  costly  board  ; 
Give  us  the  bowl  of  samp  and  milk, 

By  homespun  beauty  poured  ! 

Where'er  the  wide  old  kitchen  hearth 

Sends  up  its  smoky  curls, 
Who  will  not  thank  the  kindly  earth, 

And  bless  our  farmer  girls  ! 

Then  shame  on  all  the  proud  and  vain, 

Whose  folly  laughs  to  scorn 
The  blessing  of  our  hardy  grain, 

Our  wealth  of  golden  corn  ! 

Let  earth  withhold  her  goodly  root, 

Let  mildew  blight  the  rye, 
Give  to  the  worm  the  orchard's  fruit, 

The  wheat-field  to  the  fly  : 

But  let  the  good  old  crop  adorn 

The  hills  our  fathers  trod  ; 
Still  let  us,  for  his  golden  corn, 

Send  up  our  thanks  to  God  ! 


THE    REFORMER 

ALL  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan, 

I  saw  a  Strong  One,  in  his  wrath, 
Smiting  the  godless  shrines  of  man 
Along  his  path. 


THE   REFORMER 


365 


The  Church,  beneath  her  trembling  dome, 

Essayed  in  vain  her  ghostly  charm  : 
Wealth  shook  within  his  gilded  home 
With  strange  alarm. 

Fraud  from  his  secret  chambers  fled 

Before  the  sunlight  bursting  in  : 

Sloth  drew  her  pillow  o'er  her  head 

To  drown  the  din. 

"  Spare,"  Art  implored,  "  yon  holy  pile  ; 

That  grand,  old,  time-worn  turret  spare  ; " 
Meek  Reverence,  kneeling  in  the  aisle, 
Cried  out,  "  Forbear  !  " 

Gray-bearded  Use,  who,  deaf  and  blind, 
Groped  for  his  old  accustomed  stone, 
Leaned  on  his  staff,  and  wept  to  find 
His  seat  o'erthrown. 

Young  Romance  raised  his  dreamy  eyes, 

O'erhung  with  paly  locks  of  gold,  — 

"  W7hy  smite,"  he  asked  in  sad  surprise, 

"The  fair,  the  old?" 

Yet  louder  rang  the  Strong  One's  stroke, 

Yet  nearer  flashed  his  axe's  gleam  ; 
Shuddering  and  sick  of  heart  I  woke, 
As  from  a  dream. 

I  looked  :  aside  the  dust-cloud  rolled, 

The  Waster  seemed  the  Builder  too  ; 
Upspringing  from  the  ruined  Old 
I  saw  the  New. 

'T  was  but  the  ruin  of  the  bad,  — 

The  wasting  of  the  wrong  and  ill  ; 
Whate'er  of  good  the  old  time  had 
Was  living  still. 

Calm  grew  the  brows  of  him  I  feared  ; 

The  frown  which  awed  me  passed  away, 
And  left  behind  a  smile  which  cheered 
Like  breaking  day. 

The  grain  grew  green  on  battle-plains, 
O'er   swarded   war-mounds  grazed   the 

cow  ; 

The  slave  stood  forging  from  his  chains 
The  spade  and  plough. 

Where  frowned  the  fort,  pavilions  gay 

And  cottage  windows,  flower-entwined, 
Looked  out  upon  the  peaceful  bay 
And  hills  behind. 


Through  vine-wreathed  cups  with  wine  once 

red, 

The  lights  on  brimming  crystal  fell, 
Drawn,  sparkling,  from  the  rivulet  head 
And  mossy  well. 

Through   prison    walls,    like    Heaven-sent 

hope, 
Fresh     breezes     blew,     and     sunbeams 

strayed, 
And  with  the  idle  gallows-rope 

The  young  child  played. 

Where  the  doomed  victim  in  his  cell 
Had  counted  o'er  the  weary  hours, 
Glad  school-girls,  answering  to  the  bell, 
Came  crowned  with  flowers. 

Grown  wiser  for  the  lesson  given, 

I  fear  no  longer,  for  I  know 
That,  where  the  share  is  deepest  driven, 
The  best  fruits  grow. 

The  outworn  rite,  the  old  abuse, 

The  pious  fraud  transparent  grown, 
The  good  held  captive  in  the  use 
Of  wrong  alone,  — 

These  wait  their  doom,  from  that  great  law 
Which  makes  the  past  time  serve  to-day  ; 
And  fresher  life  the  world  shall  draw 
From  their  decay. 

Oh,  backward-looking  son  of  time  ! 

The  new  is  old,  the  old  is  new, 
The  cycle  of  a  change  sublime 

Still  sweeping  through. 

So  wisely  taught  the  Indian  seer  ; 

Destroying  Seva,  forming  Brahm, 
Who  wake  by  turns  Earth's  love  and  fear, 
Are  one,  the  same. 

Idly  as  thou,  in  that  old  day 

Thoii  mournest,  did  thy  sire  repine  ; 
So,  in  his  time,  thy  child  grown  gray 
Shall  sigh  for  thine. 

But  life  shall  on  and  upward  go  ; 

Th'  eternal  step  of  Progress  beats 

To  that  great  anthem,  calm  and  slow. 

Which  God  repeats. 

Take  heart  !  the  Waster  builds  again,  — 
A  charmed  life  old  Goodness  hath  ; 


366 


SONGS    OF   LABOR  AND    REFORM 


The  tares  may  perish,  but  the  grain 
Is  not  for  death. 

God  works  in  all  things  ;  all  obey 

His  first  propulsion  from  the  night  : 
Wake  t-hou  and  watch  !  the  world  is  gray 
With  morning  light  ! 


THE  PEACE  CONVENTION  AT 
BRUSSELS 

STILL  in  thy  streets,  O  Paris  !  doth  the  stain 
Of  blood  defy  the  cleansing  autumn  rain  ; 
Still    breaks    the  smoke     Messina's    ruins 

through, 

And  Naples  mourns  that  new  Bartholomew, 
When  squalid  beggary,  for  a  dole  of  bread, 
At  a  crowned  murderer's  beck  of  license, 

fed 

The  yawning  trenches  with  her  noble  dead  ; 
Still,  doomed  Vienna,  through  thy  stately 

halls 
The  shell  goes  crashing  and  the  red  shot 

falls, 
And,  leagued  to  crush  thee,  on  the  Danube's 

side, 
The  bearded  Croat  and  Bosniak  spearman 

ride  ; 

Still  in  that  vale  where  Himalaya's  snow 
Melts  round  the  cornfields    and  the  vines 

below, 
The  Sikh's  hot  cannon,  answering  ball  for 

ball, 
Flames  in  the  breach  of  Moultan's  shattered 

wall  ; 

On  Chenab's  side  the  vulture  seeks  the  slain, 
And  Sutlej  paints  with  blood  its  banks  again. 

"What  folly,  then,"  the  faithless  critic 
cries, 

With  sneering  lip,  and  wise  world-knowing 
eyes, 

"  While  fort  to  fort,  and  post  to  post,  repeat 

The  ceaseless  challenge  of  the  war-drum's 
beat, 

And  round  the  green  earth,  to  the  church- 
bell's  chime, 

The  morning  drum-roll  of  the  camp  keeps 
time, 

To  dream  of  peace  amidst  a  world  in  arms, 

Of  swords  to  ploughshares  changed  by 
Scriptural  charms, 

Of  nations,  drunken  with  the  wine  of  blood, 


Staggering  to  take  the   Pledge  of  Brother 
hood, 
Like  tipplers  answering  Father  Mathew's 

cull  ; 

The  sullen  Spaniard,  and  the  mad-cap  Gaul, 
The  bull- dog  Briton,  yielding  but  with  life, 
The   Yankee   swaggering  with  his  bowie- 
knife, 
The  Russ,  from  banquets  with  the  vulture 

shared, 
The  blood  still   dripping  from  his  amber 

beard, 

Quitting  their  mad  Berserker  dance  to  hear 
The  dull,  meek  droning  of  a  drab-coat  seer  ; 
Leaving  the  sport  of  Presidents  and  Kings, 
Where  men  for  dice  each  titled  gambler 

flings, 

To  meet  alternate  on  the  Seine  and  Thames, 
For  tea  and  gossip,  like  old  country  darnes  ! 
No  !  let  the  cravens  plead  the  weakling's 

cant, 

Let  Cobden  cipher,  and  let  Vincent  rant, 
Let    Sturge    preach   peace    to   democratic 

throngs, 

And  Burritt,  stammering  through  his  hun 
dred  tongues, 

Repeat,  in  all,  his  ghostly  lessons  o'er, 
Timed  to  the  pauses  of  the  battery's  roar  ; 
Check  Banor  Kaiser  with  the  barricade 
Of  '  Olive-leaves  '  and  Resolutions  made, 
Spike  guns    with    pointed    Scripture-texts, 

and  hope 

To  capsize  navies  with  a  windy  trope  ; 
Still  shall  the  glory  and  the  pomp  of  War 
Along    their    train    the    shouting    millions 

draw  ; 

Still  dusty  Labor  to  the  passing  Brave 
His  cap  shall  doff,  and  Beauty's  kerchief 

wave  ; 

Still  shall  the  bard  to  Valor  tune  his  song, 
Still  Hero-worship  kneel  before  the  Strong  ; 
Rosy  and  sleek,  the  sable-gowned  divine, 
O'er  his  third  bottle  of  suggestive  wine, 
To    plumed  and    sworded    auditors,    shall 

prove 
Their  trade    accordant    with   the    Law   of 

Love  ; 
And    Church    for    State,    and    State    for 

Church,  shall  fight, 
And    both    agree,    that    Might    alone     is 

Right  !  " 

Despite  of  sneers  like  these,  O  faithful  few, 
Who  dare  to  hold  God's  word  and  witness 
true, 


THE   PRISONER   FOR   DEBT 


367 


Whose  clear-eyed  faith  transcends  our  evil 

time; 

And  o'er  the  present  wilderness  of  crime 
Sees  the   calm   future,    with   its   robes    of 

green, 
Its     fleece-flecked     mountains,    and     soft 

streams  between,  — 

Still  keep  the  path  which  duty  bids  ye  tread 
Though  worldly  wisdom  shake  the  cautious 

head  ; 
No  truth  from  Heaven  descends  upon  our 

sphere, 

Without  the  greeting  of  the  skeptic's  sneer  ; 
Denied  and  mocked  at,  till  its  blessings  fall, 
Common  as  dew  and  sunshine,  over  all. 

Then,   o'er   Earth's    war -field,   till   the 

strife  shall  cease, 
Like  Morven's  harpers,  sing  your  song  of 

peace  ; 

As  in  old  fable  rang  the  Thracian's  lyre, 
Midst  howl  of  fiends  and  roar  of  penal  fire, 
Till  the  fierce  din  to  pleasing  murmurs  fell, 
And  love  subdued  the  maddened  heart  of 

hell. 

Lend,  once  again,  that  holy  song  a  tongue, 
Which  the  glad  angels  of  the  Advent  sung, 
Their  cradle-anthem  for  the  Saviour's  birth, 
Glory  to  God,  and  peace  unto  the  earth  ! 
Through  the  mad  discord  send  that  calming 

word 
Which  wind  and  wave  on  wild  Gennesareth 

heard, 
Lift  in  Christ's  name  his  Cross  against  the 

Sword  ! 

Not  vain  the  vision  which  the  prophets  saw, 
Skirting  with  green  the  fiery  waste  of  war, 
Through  the  hot  sand-gleam,  looming  soft 

and  calm 
On  the    sky's   rim,  the    fountain  -  shading 

palm. 
Still  lives  for  Earth,  which  fiends  so  long 

have  trod, 
The  great    hope    resting   on    the    truth  of 

God,  — 

Evil  shall  cease  and  Violence  pass  away, 
Aud  the  tired  world  breathe  free  through 

a  long  Sabbath  day. 


THE  PRISONER  FOR  DEBT 

Before  the  law  authorizing-  imprisonment  for 
debt  had  been  abolished  in  Massachusetts,  a 
revolutionary  pensioner  was  Confined  in  Charles- 


town  jail  for  a  debt  of  fourteen  dollars,  and 
'>n  the  fourth  of  July  was  seen  waving1  a  hand 
kerchief  from  the  bars  of  his  cell  in  honor  of 
the  day. 

LOOK  on  him  !  through  his  dungeon  grate. 

Feebly  and  cold,  the  morning  light 
Comes  stealing  round  him,  dim  and  late, 

As  if  it  loathed  the  sight. 
Reclining  on  his  strawy  bed, 
His  hand  upholds  his  drooping  head  ; 
His  bloodless  cheek  is  seamed  and  hard, 
Unshorn  his  gray,  neglected  beard  ; 
And  o'er  his  bony  fingers  fl">w 
His  long,  dishevelled  locks  of  snow. 

No  grateful  fire  before  him  glows, 
And  yet  the  winter's  breath  is  chill  ; 

And  o'er  his  half-clad  person  goes 
The  frequent  ague  thrill  ! 

Silent,  save  ever  and  anon, 

A  sound,  half  murmur  and  half  groan, 

Forces  apart  the  painful  grip 

Of  the  old  sufferer's  bearded  lip  ; 

Oh,  sad  and  crushing  is  the  fate 

Of  old  age  chained  and  desolate  ! 

Just  God  !  why  lies  that  old  man  there  ? 

A  murderer  shares  his  prison  bed, 
Whose  eyeballs,  through  his  horrid  hair, 

Gleam  on  him,  fierce  and  red  ; 
And  the  rude  oath  and  heartless  jeer 
Fall  ever  on  his  loathing  ear, 
And,  or  in  wakefulness  or  sleep, 
Nerve,  flesh,  and  pulses  thrill  and  creep 
Whene'er  that  ruffian's  tossing  limb, 
Crimson  with  murder,  touches  him  ! 

What  has  the  gray-haired  prisoner  done  ? 

Has  murder  stained  his  hands  with  gore  1 
Not  so  ;  his  crime  's  a  fouler  one  ; 

God  made  the  old  man  poor  ! 
For  this  he  shares  a  felon's  cell, 
The  fittest  earthly  type  of  hell  ! 
For  this,  the  boon  for  which  he  poured 
His  young  blood  on  the  invader's  sword, 
And  counted  light  the  fearful  cost, 
His  blood-gained  liberty  is  lost ! 

And  so,  for  such  a  place  of  rest, 

Old  prisoner,  dropped  thy  blood  as  rain 

On  Concord's  field,  and  Bunker's  crest, 
And  Saratoga's  plain  ? 

Look  forth,  them  man  of  many  scars, 

Through  thy  dim  dungeon's  iron  bars  ; 


368 


SONGS    OF   LABOR   AND    REFORM 


It  must  be  joy,  in  sooth,  to  see 
Yon  monument  upreared  to  thee  ; 
Piled  granite  and  a  prison  cell,  — 
The  land  repays  thy  service  well ! 

Go,  ring  the  bells  and  fire  the  guns, 
And  fling  the  starry  banner  out  ; 
Shout  "  Freedom  !  "  till  your  lisping  ones 

Give  back  their  cradie-shout  ; 
Let  boastful  eloquence  declaim 
Of  honor,  liberty,  and  fame  ; 
Still  let  the  poet's  strain  be  heard, 
With  glory  for  each  second  word, 
And  everything  with  breath  agree 
To  praise  "  our  glorious  liberty  "  ! 

But  when  the  patron  cannon  jars 
That  prison's  cold  and  gloomy  wall, 

And  through  its  grates  the  stripes  and  stars 
Rise  on  the  wind,  and  fall, 

Think  ye  that  prisoner's  aged  ear 

Rejoices  in  the  general  cheer  ? 

Think  ye  his  dim  and  failing  eye 

Is  kindled  at  your  pageantry  ? 

Sorrowing  of  soul,  and  chained  of  limb, 

What  is  your  carnival  to  him  ? 

Down  with  the  law  that  binds  him  thus  ! 

Unworthy  freemen,  let  it  find 
No  refuge  from  the  withering  curse 

Of  god  and  human-kind  ! 
Open  the  prison's  living  tomb, 
And  usher  from  its  brooding  gloom 
The  victims  of  your  savage  code 
To  the  free  sun  and  air  of  God  ; 
No  longer  dare  as  crime  to  brand 
The  chastening  of  the  Almighty's  hand. 


THE   CHRISTIAN    TOURISTS 

The  reader  of  the  biography  of  William 
Allen,  the  philanthropic  associate  of  Clarkson 
and  Romilly,  cannot  fail  to  admire  his  simple 
and  beautiful  record  of  a  tour  through  Europe, 
in  the  years  1818  and  1810,  in  the  company  of 
his  American  friend,  Stephen  Grellett. 

No  aimless  wanderers,  by  the  fiend  Unrest 
Goaded  from  shore  to  shore  ; 

No   schoolmen,    turning,    in    their    classic 

quest, 
The  leaves  of  empire  o'er. 

Simple  of  faith,  and  bearing  in  their  hearts 
The  love  of  man  and  God, 


Isles   of   old   song,   the   Moslem's   ancient 

marts, 
And  Scythia's  steppes,  they  trod. 

Where  the  long  shadows  of  the  fir  and  pine 

In  the  night  sun  are  cast, 
And   the    deep  heart   of  many  a  Norland 

mine 

Quakes  at  each  riving  blast  ; 
Where,    in    barbaric    grandeur,    Moskwa 

stands, 

A  baptized  Scythian  queen, 
With   Europe's   arts   and   Asia's  jewelled 

hands, 
The  North  and  East  between  ! 

Where  still,  through  vales  of  Grecian  fable 

stray 

The  classic  forms  of  yore, 
And   beauty   smiles,  new   risen   from   the 

spray, 

And  Dian  weeps  once  more  ; 
Where  every  tongue  in  Smyrna's  mart  re 
sounds  ; 

And  Stamboul  from  the  sea 
Lifts  her  tall  minarets  over  burial-grounds 
Black  with  the  cypress-tree  ! 

From  Malta's  temples  to  the  gates  of  Rome, 

Following  the  track  of  Paul, 
And  where  the  Alps  gird  round  the  Switz- 
er's  home 

Their  vast,  eternal  wall  ; 
They  paused  not  by  the  ruins  of  old  time, 

They  scanned  no  pictures  rare, 
Nor  lingered  where  the  snow-locked  moui> 
tains  climb 

The  cold  abyss  of  air  ! 

But  unto  prisons,  where  men  lay  in  chains, 

To  haunts  where  Hunger  pined, 
To  kings  and  courts  forgetful  of  the  pains 

And  wants  of  human-kind, 
Scattering  sweet  words,  and  quiet  deeds  of 
good, 

Along  their  way,  like  flowers, 
Or  pleading,  as  Christ's  freemen  only  could. 

With  princes  and  with  powers  ; 

Their  single  aim  the  purpose  to  fulfil 

Of  Truth,  from  day  to  day, 
Simply  obedient  to  its  guiding  will, 

They  held  4Iieir  pilgrim  way. 
Yet  dream  not,  hence,  the  beautiful  and  old 

Were  wasted  on  their  sight, 


THE   MEN    OF   OLD 


369 


Who  in  the  school  of  Christ  had  learned  to 

hold 
All  outward  things  aright. 

Not  less  to  them  the  breath  of  vineyards 
blown 

From  off  the  Cyprian  shore, 
Not  less  for  them  the  Alps  in  sunset  shone, 

That  man  they  valued  more. 
A  life  of  beauty  lends  to  all  it  sees 

The  beauty  of  its  thought  ; 
And  fairest  forms  and  sweetest  harmonies 

Make  glad  its  way,  unsought. 

In  sweet  accordancy  of  praise  and  love, 

The  singing  waters  run  ; 
And  sunset  mountains  wear  in  light  above 

The  smile  of  duty  done  ; 
Sure    stands   the   promise,  —  ever   to  the 
meek 

A  heritage  is  given  ; 

Nor  lose  they  Earth  who,  single-hearted, 
seek 

The  righteousness  of  Heaven  ! 


THE    MEN    OF    OLD 

WELL  speed  thy  mission,  bold  Iconoclast  ! 
Yet  all  unworthy  of  its  trust  thou  art, 
If,    with    dry    eye,    and   cold,    unloving 

heart, 
Thou  tread'st  the  solemn  Pantheon  of  the 

Past, 
By   the    great    Future's    dazzling   hope 

made  blind 

To  all  the  beauty,  power,  and  truth  be 
hind. 
Not   without   reverent   awe  shouldst  thou 

put  by 
The  cypress  branches  and  the  amaranth 

blooms, 
Where,  with    clasped   hands  of   prayer, 

upon  their  tombs 
The  effigies  of  old  confessors  lie, 
God's  witnesses  ;  the  voices  of  His  will, 
Heard  in  the  slow  march  of  the  centuries 

still ! 
Such   were    the    men   at    whose    rebuking 

frown, 
Dark  with  God's  wrath,  the  tyrant's  knee 

went  down  ; 

Such  from  the  terrors  of  the  guilty  drew 
The  vassal's  freedom  and  the  poor  man's 
due. 


St.  Anselm  (may  he  rest  forevermore 
In  Heaven's  sweet  peace  !)  forbade,  of 

old,  the  sale 
Of  men  as  slaves,  and  from  the  sacrecj 

pale 
Hurled  the  Northumbrian  buyers  of   the 

poor. 

To  ransom  souls  from  bonds  and  evil  fate 
St.    Ambrose     melted    down    the     sacred 

plate, — 

Image  of  saint,  the  chalice,  and  the  pix, 
Crosses  of  gold,  and  silver  candlesticks. 
"  Man  is  worth  more  than  temples  ! "  he 

replied 

To  such  as  came  his  holy  work  to  chide. 
And  brave  Cesarius,  stripping  altars  bare, 
And  coining  from   the   Abbey's  golden 

hoard 
The  captive's   freedom,    answered    to   the 

prayer 
Or  threat  of  those  whose  fierce  zeal  for 

the  Lord 
Stifled  their  love  of  man,  —  "  An  earthen 

dish 

The  last  sad  supper  of  the  Master  bore  : 
Most  miserable  sinners  !  do  ye  wish 

More  than  your  Lord,  and  grudge  His 

dying  poor 
What  your  own  pride  and  not   His  need 

requires  ? 
Souls,    than    these    shining    gauds,    He 

values  more  : 

Mercy,  not  sacrifice,  His  heart  desires  ! " 
O  faithful  worthies  !  resting  far  behind 
In  your  dark  ages,  since  ye  fell  asleep, 
Much  has  been  done  for  truth  and  human 
kind  ; 
Shadows  are  scattered  wherein  ye  groped 

blind  ; 
Man    claims    his    birthright,    freer   pulses 

leap 
Through  peoples  driven  in  your  day  like 

sheep  ; 
Yet,  like  your  own,   our  age's  sphere   of 

light, 
Though  widening  still,  is  walled  around  by 

night  ; 
With  slow,  reluctant  eye,  the  Church  has 

read, 

Skeptic  at  heart,  the  lessons  of  its  Head  ; 
Counting,  too  oft,  its  living  members  less 
Than  the  wall's  garnish  and  the  pulpit'i 

dress  ; 
World-moving  zeal,   with  power  to  bless 

and  feed 


370 


SONGS    OF   LABOR   AND    REFORM 


Life's    fainting    pilgrims,    to    their    utter 

need, 
Instead  of   bread,  holds  out  the  stone  of 

creed  ; 
Sect  builds  and  worships  where  its  wealth 

and  pride 

And  vanity  stand  shrined  and  deified, 
Careless  that  iii  the  shadow  of  its  walls 
God's  living  temple  into  ruin  falls. 
We  need,  methinks,  the  prophet-hero  still, 
Saints  true  of  life,  and  martyrs  strong  of 

will, 
To  tread  the  land,   even  now,   as  Xavier 

trod 
The  streets  of  Goa,   barefoot,  with  his 

bell, 

Proclaiming  freedom  in  the  name  of  God, 
And   startling  tyrants  with  the  fear  of 

hell! 
Soft    words,    smooth     prophecies,     are 

doubtless  well  ; 

But  to  rebuke  the  age's  popular  crime, 
We  need  the   souls  of  fire,  the  hearts  of 

that  old  time  ! 


TO    PIUS    IX 

The  writer  of  these  lines  is  no  enemy  of 
Catholics.  He  has,  on  more  than  one  occa 
sion,  exposed  himself  to  the  censures  of  his 
Protestant  brethren,  by  his  strenuous  endea 
vors  to  procure  indemnification  for  the  own 
ers  of  the  convent  destroyed  near  Boston. 
He  defended  the  cause  of  the  Irish  patriots 
long-  before  it  had  become  popular  in  this 
country ;  and  he  was  one  of  tbe  first  to  urge 
the  most  liberal  aid  to  the  suffering1  and  starv 
ing1  population  of  the  Catholic  island.  Tbe 
severity  of  his  language  finds  its  ample  apol 
ogy  in  the  reluctant  confession  of  one  of  the 
most  eminent  Romisb  priests,  the  eloquent 
and  devoted  Father  Ventura. 

THE  cannon's  brazen  lips  are  cold  ; 

No  red  shell  blazes  down  the  air  ; 
And  street  and  tower,  and  temple  old, 

Are  silent  as  despair. 

The  Lombard  stands  no  more  at  bay, 

Rome's  fresh  young  life  has  bled  in  vain; 

The  ravens  scattered  by  the  day 
Come  back  with  night  again. 

Kow,  while  the  fratricides  of  France 
Are  treading  on  the  neck  of  Rome, 


Hider  at  Gaeta,  seize  thy  chance  ! 
Coward  and  cruel,  come  ! 

Creep  now  from  Naples'  bloody  skirt  ; 

Thy  mummer's  part  was  acted  well, 
While  Rome,  with  steel  and  fire  begirt, 

Before  thy  crusade  fell ! 

Her  death-groans  answered  to  thy  prayer  , 
Thy  chant,  the  drum  and  bugle-call  ; 

Thy  lights,  the  burning  villa's  glare  ; 
Thy  beads,  the  shell  and  ball  ! 

Let  Austria  clear  thy  way,  with  hands 
Foul  from  Ancona's  cruel  sack, 

And  Naples,  with  his  dastard  bands 
Of  murderers,  lead  thee  back  ! 

Rome's  lips  are  dumb  ;  the  orphan's  wail, 
The  mother's  shriek,  thou  mayst  not  hear 

Above  the  faithless  Frenchman's  hail, 
The  unsexed  shaveling's  cheer  ! 

Go,  bind  on  Rome  her  cast-off  weight, 
The  double  curse  of  crook  and  crown, 

Though  woman's  scorn  and  manhood's  hate 
From  wall  and  roof  flash  down ! 

Nor  heed  those  blood-stains  on  the  wall, 
Not  Tiber's  flood  can  wash  away, 

Where,  in  thy  stately  Quirinal, 
Thy  mangled  victims  lay  ! 

Let  the  world  murmur  ;  let  its  cry 
Of  horror  and  disgust  be  heard  ; 

Truth  stands  alone  ;  thy  coward  lie 
Is  backed  by  lance  and  sword  ! 

The  cannon  of  St.  Angelo, 

And  chanting  priest  and  clanging  bell, 
And  beat  of  drum  and  bugle  blow, 

Shall  greet  thy  coming  well  ! 

Let  lips  of  iron  and  tongues  of  slaves 
Fit  welcome  give  thee  ;  for  her  part, 

Rome,  frowning  o'er  her  new-made  grave^ 
Shall  curse  thee  from  her  heart ! 

No  wreaths  of  sad  Campagna's  flowers 
Shall  childhood  in  thy  pathway  fling  -• 

No  garlands  from  their  ravaged  bowers 
Shall  Term's  maidens  bring  ; 

But,  hateful  as  that  tyrant  old, 
The  mocking  witness  of  his  crime. 


OUR   STATE 


371 


In  thee  shall  loathing  eyes  behold 
The  Nero  of  our  time  ! 

Stand  where  Rome's  blood  was  freest  shed, 
Mock  Heaven  with  impious  thanks    and 
call 

Its  curses  on  the  patriot  dead, 
Its  blessings  on  the  Gaul  ! 

Or  sit  upon  thy  throne  of  lies, 

A  poor,  mean  idol,  blood-besmeared, 

Whom  even  its  worshippers  despise, 
Unhonored,  unrevered  I 

Yet,  Scandal  of  the  World  !  from  thee 
One  needful  truth  mankind  shall  learn  : 

That  kings  and  priests  to  Liberty 
And  God  are  false  in  turn. 


and  the  long 
the    Heavens   doth 


Earth  wearies  of  them 

Meek   sufferance    of 

fail: 
Woe  for  weak  tyrants,  when  the  stron 

Wake,  struggle,  and  prevail  ! 


Not  vainly  Roman  hearts  have  bled 
To  feed  the  Crosier  and  the  Crown, 

If,  roused  thereby,  the  world  shall  tread 
The  twin-born  vampires  down  ! 


CALEF    IN    BOSTON 
1692 

IN  the  solemn  days  of  old, 

Two  men  met  in  Boston  town, 

One  a  tradesman  frank  and  bold, 
One  a  preacher  of  renown. 

Cried  the  last,  in  bitter  tone  : 
"  Poisoner  of  the  wells  of  truth  ! 

Satan's  hireling,  thou  hast  sown 

With  his  tares  the  heart  of  youth  !  " 

Spake  the  simple  tradesman  then, 
"God  be  judge  'twixt  thee  and  me  ; 

All  thou  knowest  of  truth  hath  been 
Once  a  lie  to  men  like  thee. 

1  Falsehoods  which  we  spurn  to-day 
Were  the  truths  of  long  ago  ; 

Let  the  dead  boughs  fall  away, 
Fresher  shall  the  living  grow. 


"  God  is  good  and  God  is  light, 
In  this  faith  I  rest  secure  ; 
Evil  can  but  serve  the  right, 
Over  all  shall  love  endure. 

"  Of  your  spectral  puppet  play 

I  have  traced  the  cunning  wires  ; 
Come  what  will,  I  needs  must  say, 
God  is  true,  and  ye  are  liars." 

When  the  thought  of  man  is  free, 
Error  fears  its  lightest  tones  ; 

So  the  priest  cried,  "  Sadducee  ! " 
And  the  people  took  up  stones. 

In  the  ancient  burying-ground, 
Side  by  side  the  twain  now  lie  ; 

One  with  humble  grassy  mound, 
One  with  marbles  pale  and  high. 

But  the  Lord  hath  blest  the  seed 

Which  that  tradesman  scattered  then, 

And  the  preacher's  spectral  creed 
Chills  no  more  the  blood  of  men. 

Let  us  trust,  to  one  is  known 

Perfect  love  which  casts  out  fear, 

While  the  other's  joys  atone 
For  the  wrong  he  suffered  here. 


OUR    STATE 

[Originally  entitled  Dedication  of  a  School- 
house.  It  was  written  for  the  dedication  services 
of  a  new  school  building-  in  Newbury,  Mass.j 

THE  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane, 
The  prairied  West  its  heavy  grain, 
And  sunset's  radiant  gates  unfold 
On  rising  marts  and  sands  of  gold  ! 

Rough,  bleak,  and  hard,  our  little  State 
Is  scant  of  soil,  of  limits  strait  ; 
Her  yellow  sands  are  sands  alone, 
Her  only  mines  are  ice  and  stone  ! 

From  Autumn  frost  to  April  rain, 
Too  long  her  winter  woods  complain  ; 
From  budding  flower  to  falling  leaf, 
Her  summer  time  is  all  too  brief. 

Yet,  on  her  rocks,  and  on  her  sands, 
And  wintry  hills,  the  school-house  stands, 


372 


SONGS    OF   LABOR   AND   REFORM 


And  what  her  rugged  soil  denies, 
The  harvest  of  the  mind  supplies. 

The  riches  of  the  Commonwealth 
Are  free,  strong  minds,  and  hearts  of  health; 
And  more  to  her  than  gold  or  grain, 
The  cunning  hand  and  cultured  brain. 

For  well  she  keeps  her  ancient  stock, 
The  stubborn  strength  of  Pilgrim  Rock  ; 
And  still  maintains,  with  milder  laws, 
And  clearer  light,  the  Good  Old  Cause  ! 

Nor  heeds  the  skeptic's  puny  hands, 
While   near   her  school   the  church  -  spire 

stands  ; 

Nor  fears  the  blinded  bigot's  rule, 
While  near   her   church  -  spire  stands  the 

school. 


THE    PRISONERS    OF    NAPLES 

I  HAVE  been  thinking  of  the  victims  bound 

In  Naples,  dying  for  the  lack  of  air 

And  sunshine,  in  their  close,  damp  cells  of 

pain, 

Where  hope  is  not,  and  innocence  in  vain 
Appeals  against  the  torture  and  the  chain  ! 
Unfortunates  !  whose  crime  it  was  to  share 
Our  common  love  of  freedom,  and  to  dare, 
In  its  behalf,  Rome's  harlot  triple-crowned, 
And  her  base  pander,  the  most  hateful 

thing 

Who  upon  Christian  or  on  Pagan  ground 
Makes  vile  the  old  heroic  name  f,i  king. 
O    God  most  merciful !     Father  just  and 

kind  ! 
Whom  man  hath  bound  let  thy  right  hand 

unbind. 

Or,  if  thy  purposes  of  good  behind 
Their  ills  lie  hidden,  let  the  sufferers  find 
Strong   consolations  ;    leave    them   not    to 

doubt 

Thy  providential  care,  nor  yet  without 
The  hope  which  all  thy  attributes  inspire, 
That   not   in   vain    the   martyr's   robe    of 

fire 
Is  worn,  nor  the   sad   prisoner's   fretting 

chain  ; 
Since    all    who  suffer   for   thy  truth  send 

forth, 

Electrical,  with  every  throb  of  pain, 
Unquenchable  sparks,  thy  own   baptismal 


Of  fire  and  spirit  over  all  the  earth, 
Making  the  dead  in  slavery  live  again. 
Let  this  great  hope  be  with  them,  as  they 

lie 
Shut  from  the  light,  the  greenness,  and  the 

sky; 
From   the    cool   waters   and   the   pleasant 

breeze, 
The  smell  of  flowers,  and  shade  of  summer 

trees  ; 

Bound  with   the    felon  lepers,  whom   dis 
ease 
And  sins  abhorred   make   loathsome  ;   let 

them  share 

Pellico's  faith,  Foresti's  strength  to  bear 
Years  of  unutterable    torment,  stern  and 

still, 
As  the  chained    Titan  victor  through   his 

will! 
Comfort  them  with  thy  future  ;   let  them 

see 

The  day-dawn  of  Italian  liberty  ; 
For  that,  with  all  good  things,  is  hid  with 

Thee, 
And,  perfect  in  thy  thought,  awaits  its  time 

to  be! 

I,  who  have  spoken  for  freedom  at  the 
cost 

Of  some  weak  friendships,  or  some  paltry 
prize 

Of  name  or  place,  and  more  than  I  have 
lost 

Have  gained  in  wider  reach  of  sympathies, 

And  free  communion  with  the  good  and 
wise  ; 

May  God  forbid  that  I  should  ever  boast 

Such  easy  self-denial,  or  repine 

That  the  strong  pulse  of  health  no  more  in 
mine  ; 

That,  overworn  at  noonday,  I  must  yield 

To  other  hands  the  gleaning  of  the  field  ; 

A  tired  on-looker  through  the  day's  de 
cline. 

For  blest  beyond  deserving  still,  and  know 
ing 

That  kindly  Providence  its  care  is  show, 
ing 

In  the  withdrawal  as  in  the  bestowing, 

Scarcely  I  dare  for  more  or  less  to  pray. 

Beautiful  yet  for  me  this  autumn  day 

Melts  on  its  sunset  hills  ;  and,  far  awayr 

For  me  the  Ocean  lifts  its  solemn  psalm, 

To   me  the  pine-woods  whisper  ;   and  for 


ASTR^EA 


373 


You  river,  winding  through  its  vales  of 
calm, 

By  greenest  banks,  with  asters  purple- 
starred, 

And  gentian  bloom  and  golden-rod  made 

gaJ» 

Flows  down  in  silent  gladness  to  the  sea, 
Like  a  pure  spirit  to  its  great  reward ! 

Nor  lack  I  friends,  long-tried  and  near  and 

dear, 

Whose  love  is  round  me  like  this  atmos 
phere, 
Warm,  soft,  and  golden.     For  such  gifts  to 

me 

What  shall  I  render,  O  my  God,  to  thee  ? 
Let  me  not  dwell  upon  my  lighter  share 
Of  pain  and  ill  that  human  life  must  bear  ; 
Save  me  from  selfish  pining  ;  let  my  heart, 
Drawn  from  itself  in  sympathy,  forget 
The  bitter  longings  of  a  vain  regret, 
The  anguish  of  its  own  peculiar  smart. 
Remembering  others,  as  I  have  to-day, 
In  their  great  sorrows,  let  me  live  alway 
Not  for  myself  alone,  but  have  a  part, 
Such  as  a  frail  and  erring  spirit  may, 
In  love  which  is  of  Thee,  and  which  indeed 
Thou  art  ! 


THE    PEACE   OF    EUROPE 

"  GREAT  peace  in  Europe  !     Order  reigns 
From  Tiber's  hills  to  Danube's  plains  !  " 
So  say  her  kings  and  priests  ;  so  say 
The  lying  prophets  of  our  day. 

Go  lay  to  earth  a  listening  ear  ; 
The  tramp  of  measured  marches  hear  ; 
The  rolling  of  the  cannon's  wheel, 
The  shotted  musket's  murderous  peal, 
The  night  alarm,  the  sentry's  call, 
The  quick-eared  spy  in  hut  and  hall  ! 
From  Polar  sea  and  tropic  fen 
The  dying-groans  of  exiled  men  ! 
The  bolted  cell,  the  galley's  chains, 
The  scaffold  smoking  with  its  stains  ! 
Order,  the  hush  of  brooding  slaves  ! 
Peace,  in  the  dungeon-vaults  and  graves  ! 

O  Fisher  !  of  the  world-wide  net, 
With  meshes  in  all  waters  set, 
Whose  fabled  keys  of  heaven  and  hell 
Bolt  hard  the  patriot's  prison-cell, 
And  open  wide  the  banquet-hall, 


Where  kings  and  priests  hold  carnival ! 

Weak  vassal  tricked  in  royal  guise, 

Boy  Kaiser  with  thy  lip  of  lies  ; 

Base  gambler  for  Napoleon's  crown, 

Barnacle  on  his  dead  renown  ! 

Thou,  Bourbon  Neapolitan, 

Crowned  scandal,  loathed  of  God  and  man 

And  thou,  fell  Spider  of  the  North  ! 

Stretching  thy  giant  feelers  forth, 

Within  whose  web  the  freedom  dies 

Of  nations  eaten  up  like  flies  ! 

Speak,    Prince    and    Kaiser,     Priest    and 

Czar  ! 
If  this  be  Peace,  pray  what  is  War  ? 

White  Angel  of  the  Lord  !  unmeet 

That  soil  accursed  for  thy  pure  feet. 

Never  in  Slavery's  desert  flows 

The  fountain  of  thy  charmed  repose  ; 

No  tyrant's  hand  thy  chaplet  weaves 

Of  lilies  and  of  olive-leaves  ; 

Not  with  the  wicked  shalt  thou  dwell, 

Thus  saith  the  Eternal  Oracle  ; 

Thy  home  is  with  the  pure  and  free  ! 

Stern  herald  of  thy  better  day, 

Before  thee,  to  prepare  thy  way, 

The  Baptist  Shade  of  Liberty, 

Gray,  scarred  and  hairy-robed,  must  pres:: 

With  bleeding  feet  the  wilderness  ! 

Oh  that  its  voice  might  pierce  the  ear 

Of  princes,  trembling  while  they  hear 

A  cry  as  of  the  Hebrew  seer  : 

Repent  !  God's  kingdom  draweth  near  ! 


ASTR^A 

"  Jove  means  to  settle 
Astraea  in  her  seat  again, 
.\nd  let  down  from  his  golden  chain 

An  age  of  better  metal." 

BEN  JONSON,  1615* 

O  POET  rare  and  old  ! 

Thy  words  are  prophecies  ; 
Forward  the  age  of  gold, 

The  new  Saturnian  lies. 

The  universal  prayer 

And  hope  are  not  in  vain  ; 

Rise,  brothers  !  and  prepare 
The  way  for  Saturn's  reign. 

Perish  shall  all  which  takes 
From  labor's  board  and  can  ; 

Perish  shall  all  which  makes 
A  spaniel  of  the  man  I 


374 


SONGS   OF   LABOR   AND   REFORM 


Free  from  its  bonds  the  mind, 
The  body  from  the  rod  ; 

Broken  all  chains  that  bind 
The  image  of  our  God. 

Just  men  no  longer  pine 
Behind  their  prison-bars  ; 

Through  the  rent  dungeon  shine 
The  free  sun  and  the  stars. 

Earth  own,  at  last,  untrod 
By  sect,  or  caste,  or  clan, 

The  fatherhood  of  God, 
The  brotherhood  of  man  ! 

Fraud  fail,  craft  perish,  forth 
The  money-changers  driven, 

And  God's  will  done  on  earth, 
As  now  in  heaven  ! 


THE    DISENTHRALLED 

HE  had  bowed  down  to  drunkenness, 

An  abject  worshipper  : 
The  pride  of  manhood's  pulse  had  grown 

Too  faint  and  cold  to  stir  ; 
And  he  had  given  his  spirit  up 

To  the  unblessed  thrall, 
And  bowing  to  the  poison  cup, 

He  gloried  in  his  fall  ! 

There  came  a  change  — the  cloud  rolled  off. 

And  light  fell  on  his  brain  — 
And  like  the  passing  of  a  dream 

That  cometh  not  again, 
The  shadow  of  the  spirit  fled. 

He  saw  the  gulf  before, 
He  shuddered  at  the  waste  behind, 

And  was  a  man  once  more. 

He  shook  the  serpent  folds  away, 

That  gathered  round  his  heart, 
As  shakes  the  swaying  forest-oak 

Its  poison  vine  apart  ; 
He  stood  erect  ;  returning  pride 

Grew  terrible  within, 
And  conscience  sat  in  judgment,  on 

His  most  familiar  sin. 

The  light  of  Intellect  again 

Along  his  pathway  shone  ; 
And  Reason  like  a  monarch  sat 

Upon  his  olden  throne. 


The  honored  and  the  wise  once  more 
Within  his  presence  came  ; 

And  lingered  oft  on  lovely  lips 
His  once  forbidden  name. 

There  may  be  glory  in  the  might, 

That  treadeth  nations  down; 
Wreaths  for  the  crimson  conqueror, 

Pride  for  the  kingly  crown  ; 
But  nobler  is  that  triumph  hour, 

The  disenthralled  shall  find, 
When  evil  passion  boweth  down 

Unto  the  Godlike  mind  ! 


THE  POOR  VOTER  ON  ELEC 
TION  DAY 

THE  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer, 

The  highest  not  more  high  ; 
To-day,  of  all  the  weary  year, 

A  king  of  men  am  I. 
To-day  alike  are  great  and  small, 

The  nameless  and  the  known  ; 
My  palace  is  the  people's  hall, 

The  ballot-box  my  throne  ! 

Who  serves  to-day  upon  the  list 

Beside  the  served  shall  stand ; 
Alike  the  brown  and  wrinkled  fist, 

The  gloved  and  dainty  hand  ! 
The  rich  is  level  with  the  poor, 

The  weak  is  strong  to-day  ; 
And  sleekest  broadcloth  counts  no  more 

Than  homespun  frock  of  gray. 

To-day  let  pomp  and  vain  pretence 

My  stubborn  right  ahide  ; 
I  set  a  plain  man's  common  sense 

Against  the  pedant's  pride. 
To-day  shall  simple  manhood  try 

The  strength  of  gold  and  land  ; 
The  wide  world  has  not  wealth  to  buy 

The  power  in  my  right  hand  ! 

While  there  's  a  grief  to  seek  retlresSj 

Or  balance  to  adjust, 
Where  weighs  our  living  manhood  less 

Than  Mammon  's  vilest  dust,  — 
While  there  's  a  right  to  need  my  vote, 

A  wrong  to  sweep  away, 
Up  !  clouted  knee  and  ragged  coat  ! 

A  man  's  a  man  to-day  ! 


THE   DREAM   OF   PIO   NONO 


375 


THE   DREAM   OF   PIO  NONO 

IT  chanced  that  while  the  pious  troops  of 

France 

Fought  in  the  crusade  Pio  Nono  preached, 
What   time  the  holy  Bourbons  stayed  his 

hands 
(The    Hur   and   Aaron   meet    for   such   a 

Moses), 

Stretched  forth  from  Naples  towards  rebel 
lious  Rome 

To  bless  the  ministry  of  Oudinot, 
And  sanctify  his  iron  homilies 
And  sharp  persuasions  of  the  bayonet, 
That    the    great   pontiff    fell    asleep,    and 
dreamed. 

He  stood  by  Lake  Tiberias,  in  the  sun 
Of    the    bright    Orient  ;    and   beheld    the 

lame, 
The  sick,  and  blind,  kneel  at  the  Master's 

feet, 
And   rise    up    whole.     And,    sweetly   over 

all, 

Dropping  the  ladder  of  their  hymn  of  praise 
From  heaven  to  earth,  in  silver  rounds  of 

song, 

He  heard  the  blessed  angels  sing  of  peace, 
Good-will  to  man,  and  glory  to  the  Lord. 

Then  one,  with  feet  unshod,  and  leathern 

face 
Hardened  and  darkened  by  fierce  summer 

suns 

And  hot  winds  of  the  desert,  closer  drew 
His  fisher's  haick,  and  girded  up  his  loins, 
And  spake,  as  one  who  had  authority  : 
"  Come  thou  with  me." 

Lakeside  and  eastern  sky 
And  the  sweet  song  of  angels  passed  away, 
And,  with  a  dream's  alacrity  of  change, 
The  priest,  and    the    swart   fisher   by   his 

side, 

Beheld  the  Eternal  City  lift  its  domes 
And  solemn  fanes  and  monumental  pomp 
Above  the  waste  Campagna.     On  the  hills 
The  blaze  of  burning  villas  rose  and  fell, 
And  momently  the  mortar's  iron  throat 
Roared  from  the  trenches  ;  and,  within  the 

walls, 
Sharp  crash  of  shells,  low  groans  of  human 


Shout,  drum  beat,  and  the  clanging  larum- 

bell, 
And   tramp  of   hosts,  sent   up    a  mingled 

sound, 

Half  wail  and  half  defiance.     As  they  passed 
The  gate  of  San  Pancrazio,  human  blood 
Flowed  ankle-high  about  them,  and  dead 

men 
Choked   the    long  street  with   gashed  and 

gory  piles,  — 

A  ghastly  barricade  of  mangled  flesh, 
From  which,  at    times,  quivered   a  living 

hand. 
And  white    lips  moved    and    moaned.     A 

father  tore 

His  gray  hairs,  by  the  body  of  his  son, 
In  frenzy  ;  and   his  fair   young   daughter 

wept 

On  his  old  bosom.     Suddenly  a  flash 
Clove    the  thick   sulphurous  air,  and  man 

and  maid 

Sank,  crushed  and  mangled  by  the  shatter 
ing  shell. 

Then  spake  the  Galilean:  "Thou  hast 
seen 

The  blessed  Master  and  His  works  of  love; 

Look  now  on  thine  !  Hear'st  thou  the 
angels  sing 

Above  this  open  hell  ?  Thou  God's  high- 
priest  ! 

Thou  the  Vicegerent  of  the  Prince  of  Peace  ! 

Thou  the  successor  of  His  chosen  ones  ! 

I,  Peter,  fisherman  of  Galilee, 

In  the  dear  Master's  name,  and  for  the 
love 

Of  His  true  Church,  proclaim  thee  Anti 
christ, 

Alien  and  separate  from  His  holy  faith 

Wide  as  the  difference  between  death  and 
life, 

The  hate  of  man  and  the  great  love  of  God  ! 

Hence,  and  repent  !  " 

Thereat  the  pontiff  woke, 
Trembling,  and  muttering  o'er  his  fearful 

dream. 
"  What    means   he  ?  "  cried  the  Bourbon, 

"  Nothing  more 

Than  that  your  majesty  hath  all  too  well 
Catered  for  your  poor  guests,  and  that,  in 

sooth, 

The  Holy  Father's  supper  troubleth  him," 
Said  Cardinal  Antonelli,  with  a  smile. 


376 


SONGS   OF  LABOR   AND   REFORM 


THE   VOICES 

"  WHY  urge  the  long,  unequal  fight, 
Since  Truth  lias  fallen  in  the  street, 

Or  lift  anew  the  trampled  light, 

Quenched  by  the  heedless  million's  feet  ? 

"  Give  o'er  the  thankless  task  ;  forsake 
The  fools  who  know  not  ill  from  good  : 

Eat,  drink,  enjoy  thy  own,  and  take 
Thine  ease  among  the  multitude. 

:i  Live  out  thyself  ;  with  others  share 
Thy  proper  life  no  more  ;  assume 

The  unconcern  of  sun  and  air, 

For  life  or  death,  or  blight  or  bloom. 

"  The  mountain  pine  looks  calmly  on 

The    fires   that    scourge  the    plains   be 
low, 

Nor  heeds  the  eagle  in  the  sun 

The  small  birds  piping  in  the  snow  ! 

"  The  world  is  God's,  not  thine  ;  let  Him 
Work  out  a  change,  if  change  must  be  : 

The  hand  that  planted  best  can  trim 
And  nurse  the  old  unfruitful  tree." 

So  spake  the  Tempter,  when  the  light 
Of  sun  and  stars  had  left  the  sky  ; 

I  listened,  through  the  cloud  and  night, 
And  heard,  methought,  a  voice  reply  : 

u  That  task  may  well  seem  over-hard, 
Who  scatterest  in  a  thankless  soil 

Thy  life  as  seed,  with  no  reward 
Save  that  which  Duty  gives  to  Toil. 

"  Not  wholly  is  thy  heart  resigned 
To  Heaven's  benign  and  just  decree, 

Which,  linking  thee  with  all  thy  kind, 
Transmits  their  joys  and  griefs  to  thee. 

"  Break  off  that  sacred  chain,  and  turn 
Back  on  thyself  thy  love  and  care  ; 

Be  thou  thine  own  mean  idol,  burn 

Faith,    Hope,    and    Trust,  thy  children, 
there. 

"  Released  from  that  fraternal  law 

Which  shares  the  common  bale  and  bliss, 

No  sadder  lot  could  Folly  draw, 

Or  Sin  provoke  from  Fate,  than  this. 


"  The  meal  unshared  is  food  unblest  : 
Thou  hoard'st  in  vain  what  love  should 
spend  ; 

Self-ease  is  pain  ;  thy  only  rest 
Is  labor  for  a  worthy  end  ; 

"  A  toil  that  gains  with  what  it  yields, 
And  scatters  to  its  own  increase, 

And  hears,  while  sowing  outward  fields, 
The  harvest-song  of  inward  peace. 

"  Free-lipped  the  liberal  streamlets  run, 
Free  shines  for  all  the  healthful  ray  ; 

The  still  pool  stagnates  in  the  sun, 
The  lurid  earth-fire  haunts  decay  ! 

"  What  is  it  that  the  crowd  requite 

Thy  love  with  hate,  thy  truth  with  lies  ? 

And  but  to  faith,  and  not  to  sight, 
The  walls  of  Freedom's  temple  rise  ? 

"  Yet  do  thy  work  ;  it  shall  succeed 

In  thine  or  in  another's  day  ; 
And,  if  denied  the  victor's  meed, 

Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  toiler's  pay. 

"  Faith  shares  the  future's  promise  ;  Love's 
Self-offering  is  a  triumph  won  ; 

And  each  good  thought  or  action  moves 
The  dark  world  nearer  to  the  sun. 

"  Then  faint  not,  falter  not,  nor  plead 
Thy  weakness  ;  truth  itself  is  strong  ; 

The  lion's  strength,  the  eagle's  speed, 
Are  not  alone  vouchsafed  to  wrong. 

"  Thy  nature,  which,  through  fire  and  flood, 
To  place  or  gain  finds  out  its  way, 

Hath  power  to  seek  the  highest  good, 
And  duty's  holiest  call  obey  ! 

"  Strivest  thou  in  darkness  ?  —  foes  with 
out 

In  league  with  traitor  thoughts  within  ; 
Thy  night-watch  kept  with  trembling  Doubi 

And  pale  Remorse  the  ghost  of  Sin  ? 

"  Hast  thou  not,  on  some  week  of  storm, 
Seen  the  sweet  Sabbath  breaking  fair, 

And  cloud  and  shadow,  sunlit,  form 
The  curtains  of  its  tent  of  prayer  ? 

"  So,  haply,  when  thy  task  shall  end, 
The  wrong  shall  lose  itself  in  right, 


THE   CONQUEST   OF   FINLAND 


377 


And  all  thy  week-day  darkness  blend 
With  the  long  Sabbath  of  the  light !  " 


THE    NEW   EXODUS 

Written  upon  hearing"  that  slavery  had  been 
formally  abolished  in  Egypt.  Unhappily,  the 
professions  and  pledg-es  of  the  vacillating1  gov 
ernment  of  Egypt  proved  unreliable. 

BY  fire  and  cloud,  across  the  desert  sand, 
And  through  the  parted  waves, 

From   their   long   bondage,    with   an   out 
stretched  hand, 
God  led  the  Hebrew  slaves  ! 

ji)ead  as  the  letter  of  the  Pentateuch, 

As  Egypt's  statues  cold, 
In  the  adytum  of  the  sacred  book 

Now  stands  that  marvel  old. 

"  Lo,  God  is  great  !  "  the  simple  Moslem 

says. 

We  seek  the  ancient  date, 
Turn  the  dry  scroll,  and  make   that  living 

phrase 
A  dead  one  :  "  God  was  great !  " 

And,  like  the    Coptic    monks    by    Mousa's 

wells, 

We  dream  of  wonders  past, 
Vague  as  the    tales   the    wandering   Arab 

tells, 
Each  drowsier  than  the  last. 

0  fools  and  blind  !     Above  the  Pyramids 
Stretches  once  more  that  hand, 

And  tranced  Egypt,  from  her  stony  lids, 
Flings  back  her  veil  of  sand. 

And    morning -smitten  Memnon,    singing, 

wakes  ; 

And,  listening  by  his  Nile, 
O'er    Ammon's   grave    and   awful   visage 

breaks 
A  sweet  and  human  smile. 

Not  as  before,  with  hail  and  fire,  and  call 

Of  death  for  midnight  graves, 
But  in  the  stillness  of  the  noonday,  fall 

The  fetters  of  the  slaves. 

No  longer  through  the  Red  Sea,  as  of  old, 
The  bondmen  walk  dry  shod  ; 


Through   human  hearts,  by   love    of   Him 

controlled, 
Runs  now  that  path  of  God  ! 


THE  CONQUEST  OF  FINLAND 

"  Joseph  Sturge,  with  a  companion,  Thomas 
Harvey,  has  been  visiting-  the  shores  of  Fuu 
land,  to  ascertain  the  amount  of  mischief  and 
loss  to  poor  and  peaceable  sufferers,  occasioned 
by  the  gun-boats  of  the  allied  squadrons  in  the 
late  war,  with  a  view  to  obtaining  relief  foi 
them."  —  Friends'  Review. 

ACROSS  the  frozen  marshes 

The  winds  of  autumn  blow, 
And  the  fen-lands  of  the  Wetter 

Are  white  with  early  snow. 

But  where  the  low,  gray  headlands 

Look  o'er  the  Baltic  brine, 
A  bark  is  sailing  in  the  track 

Of  England's  battle-line. 

No  wares  hath  she  to  barter 
For  Bothnia's  fish  and  grain  ; 

She  saileth  not  for  pleasure, 
She  saileth  not  for  gain. 

But  still  by  isle  or  mainland 

She  drops  her  anchor  down, 
Where'er  the  British  cannon 

Rained  fire  on  tower  and  town. 

Outspake  the  ancient  Amtman, 
At  the  gate  of  Helsingfors  : 
"  Why  comes  this  ship  a-spying 

In  the  track  of  England's  wars  ?  " 

"  God  bless  her,"  said  the  coast-guard,  — 

"  God  bless  the  ship,  I  say. 

The  holy  angels  trim  the  sails 

That  speed  her  on  her  way  ! 

"  Where'er  she  drops  her  anchor, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  glad  ; 
Where'er  she  spreads  her  parting  sail, 
The  peasant's  heart  is  sad. 

"  Each  wasted  town  and  hamlet 

She  visits  to  restore  ; 
To  roof  the  shattered  cabin, 
And  feed  the  starving  poor, 


378 


SONGS   OF   LABOR   AND   REFORM 


*  The  sunken  boats  of  fishers, 

Tht-  foraged  beeves  and  grain, 
The  spoil  of  flake  and  storehouse, 
The  good  ship  brings  again. 

"And  so  to  Finland's  sorrow 

The  sweet  amend  is  made, 
As  if  the  healing  hand  of  Christ 
Upon  her  wounds  were  laid  !  " 

Then  said  the  gray  old  Amtman, 
"  The  will  of  God  be  done  ! 

The  battle  lost  by  England's  hate, 
By  England's  love  is  won  ! 

w  We  braved  the  iron  tempest 

That  thundered  on  our  shore  ; 
But  when  did  kindness  fail  to  find 
The  key  to  Finland's  door  ? 

"  No  more  from  Aland's  ramparts 

Shall  warning  signal  come, 
Nor  startled  Sweaborg  hear  again 
The  roll  of  midnight  drum. 

"  Beside  our  fierce  Black  Eagle 

The  Dove  of  Peace  shall  rest  ; 
And  in  the  mouths  of  cannon 
The  sea-bird  make  her  nest. 

"  For  Finland,  looking  seaward, 

No  coming  foe  shall  scan  ; 
And  the  holy  bells  of  Abo 

Shall  ring,  '  Good- will  to  man  ! ' 

"  Then  row  thy  boat,  O  fisher  ! 
In  peace  on  lake  and  bay  ; 
And  thou,  young  maiden,  dance  again 
Around  the  poles  of  May  ! 

"  Sit  down,  old  men,  together, 

Old  wives,  in  quiet  spin  ; 
Henceforth  the  Anglo-Saxon 
IH  the  brother  of  the  Finn  ! " 


THE   EVE   OF   ELECTION 

FROM  gold  to  gray 

Our  mild  sweet  day 
Df  Indian  Summer  fades  too  soon  ; 

But  tenderly 

Above  the  sea 
Hangs,  white  and  calm,  the  hunter's  moon. 


In  its  pale  fire, 

The  village  spire 
Shows  like  the  zodiac's  spectral  lance  ; 

The  painted  walls 

Whereon  it  falls 
Transfigured  stand  in  marble  trance  ! 

O'er  fallen  leaves 

The  west-wind  grieves, 
Yet  comes  a  seed-time  round  again  ; 

And  morn  shall  see 

The  State  sown  free 
With  baleful  tares  or  healthful  grain. 

Along  the  street 

The  shadows  meet 
Of  Destiny,  whose  hands  conceal 

The  moulds  of  fate 

That  shape  the  State, 
And  make  or  mar  the  common  weal. 

Around  I  see 

The  powers  that  be  ; 
I  stand  by  Empire's  primal  springs  ; 

And  princes  meet, 

In  every  street, 
And  hear  the  tread  of  uncrowned  kings  i 

Hark  !  through  the  crowd 

The  laugh  runs  loud, 
Beneath  the  sad,  rebuking  moon. 

God  save  the  land 

A  careless  hand 
May  shake  or  swerve  ere  morrow's  noon! 

No  jest  is  this  ; 

One  cast  amiss 
May  blast  the  hope  of  Freedom's  year. 

Oh,  take  me  where 

Are  hearts  of  prayer, 
And  foreheads  bowed  in  reverent  fear  1 

Not  lightly  fall 

Beyond  recall 
The  written  scrolls  a  breath  can  float  ; 

The  crowning  fact, 

The  kingliest  act 
Of  Freedom  is  the  freeman's  vote  ! 

For  pearls  that  gem 

A  diadem 
The  diver  in  the  deep  sea  dies  ; 

The  regal  right 

We  boast  to-night 
Is  ours  through  costlier  sacrifice  ; 


FROM    PERUGIA 


379 


The  blood  of  Vane, 

His  prison  pain 
Who  traced  the  path  the  Pilgrim  trod, 

And  hers  whose  faith 

Drew  strength  from  death, 
And  prayed  her  Russell  up  to  God  ! 

Our  hearts  grow  cold, 

We  lightly  hold 
A  right  which  brave  men  died  to  gain  ; 

The  stake,  the  cord, 

The  axe,  the  sword, 
Grim  nurses  at  its  birth  of  pain. 

The  shadow  rend, 

And  o'er  us  bend, 
O  martyrs,  with  your  crowns  and  palms  ; 

Breathe  through  these  throngs 

Your  battle  songs, 
5Tour  scaffold  prayers,  and  dungeon  psalms  ! 

Look  from  the  sky, 

Like  God's  great  eye, 
Thou  solemn  moon,  with  searching  beam, 

Till  in  the  sight 

Of  thy  pure  light 
Our  mean  self-seekiiigs  meaner  seem. 

Shame  from  our  hearts 

Unworthy  arts, 
The  fraud  designed,  the  purpose  dark  ; 

And  smite  away 

The  hands  we  lay 
Profanely  on  the  sacred  ark. 

To  party  claims 

And  private  aims, 
Reveal  that  august  face  of  Truth, 

Whereto  are  given 

The  age  of  heaven, 
The  beauty  of  immortal  youth. 

So  shall  our  voice 

Of  sovereign  choice 
Swell  the  deep  bass  of  duty  done, 

And  strike  the  key 

Of  time  to  be, 
When  God  and  man  shall  speak  as  one  ! 


FROM    PERUGIA 

"  The  thing-  which  has  the  most  dissevered 
the  people  from  the  Pope,  —  the  unforgivable 
thing,  —  the  breaking-  point  between  him  and 


them,  —  has  been  the  encourag-ement  and  pro 
motion  he  gave  to  the  officer  under  whom  were 
executed  the  slaughters  of  Perugia.  That  made 
the  breaking-  point  in  many  honest  hearts  that 
had  clung-  to  him  before."  —  HARKIET  BEECH- 
ER  STOWK'S  Letters  from  Italy, 


THE  tall,  sallow  guardsmen  their  horsetails 
have  spread, 

Flaming  out  in  their  violet,  yellow,  and  red  ; 

And  behind  go  the  lackeys  in  crimson  and 
buff, 

And  the  chamberlains  gorgeous  in  velvet 
and  ruff  ; 

Next,  in  red-legged  pomp,  come  the  cardi 
nals  forth, 

Each  a  lord  of  the  church  and  a  prince  of 
the  earth. 

What 's  this  squeak  of  the  fife,  and  this  bat 
ter  of  drum  ? 

Lo  !  the  Swiss  of  the  Church  from  Perugia 
come  ; 

The  militant  angels,  whose  sabres  drive 
home 

To  the  hearts  of  the  malcontents,  cursed 
and  abhorred, 

The  good  Father's  missives,  and  "  Thus 
saith  the  Lord  !  " 

And  lend  to  his  logic  the  point  of  the  sword  ! 

O  maids  of  Etrnria,  gazing  forlorn 

O'er  dark  Thrasymenus,  dishevelled  and 
torn  ! 

0  fathers,  who  pluck  at  your  gray  beards 
for  shame  ! 

O  mothers,  struck  dumb  by  a  woe  without 
name  ! 

Well  ye  know  how  the  Holy  Church  hire 
ling  behaves, 

And  his  tender  compassion  of  prisons  and 
graves ! 

There  they  stand,  the  hired  stabbers,  the 
blood-stains  yet  fresh, 

That  splashed  like  red  wine  from  the  vin 
tage  of  flesh  ; 

Grim  instruments,  careless  as  pincers  and 
rack 

How  the  joints  tear  apart,  and  the  strained 
sinews  crack  ; 

But  the  hate  that  glares  on  them  is  sharp 
as  their  swords, 

And  the  sneer  and  the  scowl  print  the  air 
with  fierce  words  ! 


38° 


SONGS   OF   LABOR   AND   REFORM 


Off  with  hats,  down  with  knees,  shout  your 

vivas  like  mad  ! 
Here  's  the  Pope  in  his  holiday  righteousness 

clad, 
From  shorn  crown  to  toe-nail,  kiss-worn  to 

the  quick, 
Of   sainthood  in  purple    the    pattern   and 

pick, 
Who  the  role  of  the  priest  and  the  soldier 

unites, 
And,  praying  like  Aaron,  like  Joshua  fights  ! 

Is  this  Pio  Nono  the  gracious,  for  whom 
We    sang    our    hosannas    and    lighted    all 

Rome  ; 
With  whose  advent  we  dreamed  the  new 

era  began 
When  the  priest  should  be  human,  the  monk 

be  a  man  ? 
Ah,  the  wolf 's  with  the  sheep,  and  the  fox 

with  the  fowl, 
When  freedom  we  trust  to  the  crosier  and 

cowl  ! 

Stand  aside,  men  of  Rome  !  Here  's  a  hang 
man-faced  Swiss  — 

(A  blessing  for  him  surely  can't  go  amiss)  — 

Would  kneel  down  the  sanctified  slipper  to 
kiss. 

Short  shrift  will  suffice  him,  —  he  's  blest 
beyond  doubt  ; 

But  there  's  blood  on  his  hands  which  would 
scarcely  wash  out, 

Though  Peter  himself  held  the  baptismal 
spout ! 

Make  way  for  the  next  !  Here  's  another 
sweet  son  ! 

What 's  this  mastiff-jawed  rascal  in  epaulets 
done  ? 

He  did,  whispers  rumor,  (its  truth  God  for 
bid  !) 

At  Perugia  what  Herod  at  Bethlehem 
did. 

And  the  mothers  ?  Don't  name  them  ! 
these  humors  of  war 

They  who  keep  him  in  service  must  pardon 
him  for. 

Hist  !  here  's  the  arch-knave  in  a  cardinal's 

hat, 
With  the  heart  of  a  wolf,  and  the  stealth 

of  a  cat 
(As  if   Judas   and    Herod    together   were 

rolled), 


Who  keeps,  all  as  one,  the  Pope's  conscience 

and  gold, 
Mounts  guard  on  the  altar,  and  pilfers  from 

thence, 
And  flatters   St.  Peter  while   stealing  his 

pence  ! 

Who  doubts  Antonelli  ?  Have  miracles 
ceajed 

When  robbers  say  mass,  and  Barabbas  is 
priest  ? 

When  the  Church  eats  and  drinks,  at  its 
mystical  board, 

The  true  flesh  and  blood  carved  and  shed 
by  its  sword, 

When  its  martyr,  unsinged,  claps  the  crown 
on  his  head, 

And  roasts,  as  his  proxy,  his  neighbor  in 
stead  ! 

There  !  the  bells  jow  and  jangle  the  same 
blessed  way 

That  they  did  when  they  rang  for  Barthol 
omew's  day. 

Hark!  the  tallow-faced  monsters,  nor 
women  nor  boys, 

Vex  the  air  with  a  shrill,  sexless  horror  of 
noise. 

Te  Deum  laudamus  !  All  round  without 
stint 

The  incense-pot  swings  with  a  taint  of  blood 
in't ! 

And  now  for  the  blessing  !     Of  little  ac^ 

count, 
You  know,  is  the  old  one  they  heard  on  the 

Mount. 
Its  giver  was  landless,  His   raiment   was 

poor, 

No  jewelled  tiara  His  fishermen  wore  ; 
No  incense,  no  lackeys,  no  riches,  no  home, 
No  Swiss  guards  !     We  order  things  better 

at  Rome. 

So  bless  us  the  strong  hand,  and  curse  us 

the  weak  ; 
Let  Austria's  vulture  have    food   for   her 

beak  ; 
Let  the  wolf- whelp  of  Naples  play  Bomba 

again, 
With  his  death-cap  of  silence,  and  halter, 

and  chain  ; 
Put  reason,  and  justice,  and    truth  under 

ban  ; 
For  the  sin  unforgiven  is  freedom  for  man  I 


FREEDOM    IN    BRAZIL 


ITALY 

ACROSS  the  sea  I  heard  the  groans 

Of  nations  in  the  intervals 
Of  wind  and  wave.     Their  blood  and  bones 
Cried  out  in  torture,  crushed  by  thrones, 

And  sucked  by  priestly  cannibals. 

I  dreamed  of  Freedom  slowly  gained 

By  martyr  meekness,  patience,  faith, 
And  lo  !  an  athlete  grimly  stained, 
With  corded  muscles  battle-strained, 
Shouting  it  from  the  fields  of  death  ! 

I  turn  me,  awe-struck,  from  the  sight, 

Among  the  clamoring  thousands  mute, 
I  only  know  that  God  is  right, 
And  that  the  children  of  the  light 
Shall  tread  the  darkness  under  foot. 

I  know  the  pent  fire  heaves  its  crust, 
That  sultry  skies  the  bolt  will  form 
To  smite  them  clear  ;  that  Nature  must 
The  balance  of  her  powers  adjust, 

Though    with   the    earthquake    and    the 
storm. 

God  reigns,  and  let  the  earth  rejoice  ! 

I  bow  before  His  sterner  plan. 
Dumb  are  the  organs  of  my  choice  ; 
He  speaks  in  battle's  stormy  voice, 

His  praise  is  in  the  wrath  of  man ! 

Yet,  surely  as  He  lives,  the  day 

Of  peace  He  promised  shall  be  ours, 
To  fold  the  flags  of  war,  and  lay 
Its  sword  and  spear  to  rust  away, 

And  sow  its  ghastly  fields  with  flowers  ! 


FREEDOM    IN    BRAZIL 

WITH   clearer  light,  Cross  of   the  South, 

shine  forth 

In  blue  Brazilian  skies  ; 
And  thou,  O  river,  cleaving  half  the  earth 

From  sunset  to  sunrise, 
From  the  great  mountains  to  the  Atlantic 

waves 

Thy  joy's  long  anthem  pour. 
Yet  a  few  years  (God  make  them  less  ! ) 

and  slaves 
Shall  shame  thy  pride  no  more. 


No  fettered  feet  thy  shaded  margins  press  ; 

But  all  men  shall  walk  free 
Where  thou,  the  high-priest  of  the  wilder 
ness, 

Hast  wedded  sea  to  sea. 

And  thou,   great-hearted    ruler,    through 

whose  mouth 
The  word  of  God  is  said, 
Once  more,  "  Let  there  be  light  !  "  —  Son 

of  the  South, 

Lift  up  thy  honored  head, 
Wear  unashamed  a  crown  by  thy  desert 

More  than  by  birth  thy  own, 
Careless   of   watch   and   ward  ;    thou    art 

begirt 

By  grateful  hearts  alone. 
The  moated  wall  and  battle -ship  may  fail, 

But  safe  shall  justice  prove  ; 
Stronger   than   greaves   of    brass   or   iron 

mail 
The  panoply  of  love. 

Crowned   doubly   by   man's   blessing    and 
God's  grace, 

Thy  future  is  secure  ; 
Who  frees  a  people  makes  his  statue's  place 

In  Time's  Valhalla  sure. 
Lo  !  from  his  Neva's  banks  the    Scythian 
Czar 

Stretches  to  thee  his  hand, 
Who,  with  the  pencil  of  the  Northern  star, 

Wrote  freedom  on  his  land. 
And  he  whose  grave  is  holy  by  our  calm 

And  prairied  Sangamon, 
From  his  gaunt  hand  shall  drop  the  mar 
tyr's  palm 

To  greet  thee  with  "  Well  done  !  " 

And  thou,  O  Earth,  with  smiles  thy  face 
make  sweet, 

And  let  thy  wail  be  stilled, 
To  hear  the  Muse  of  prophecy  repeat 

Her  promise  half  fulfilled. 
The  Voice  that  spake  at  Nazareth  speaks 
still, 

No  sound  thereof  hath  died  ; 
Alike  thy  hope  and  Heaven's  eternal  will 

Shall  yet  be  satisfied. 

The   years    are    slow,  the  vision    tarrieth 
long, 

And  far  the  end  may  be  ; 
But,  one  by  one,  the  fiends  of  ancient  wrong 

Go  out  and  leave  thee  free. 


3*2 


SONGS   OF   LABOR  AND   REFORM 


AFTER    ELECTION 

THE  day's  sharp  strife  is  ended  now, 
Our  work  is  done,  God  knoweth  how  ! 
As  on  the  thronged,  unrestful  town 
The  patience  of  the  moon  looks  down, 
I  wait  to  hear,  beside  the  wire, 
The  voices  of  its  tongues  of  fire. 

Slow,  doubtful,  faint,  they  seem  at  first  : 
Be  strong,  my  heart,  to  know  the  worst  ! 
Hark  !  there  the  Alleghanies  spoke  ; 
That  sound  from  lake  and  prairie  broke, 
That  sunset-gun  of  triumph  rent 
The  silence  of  a  continent ! 

That  signal  from  Nebraska  sprung, 

This  from  Nevada's  mountain  tongue  ! 

Is  that  thy  answer,  strong  and  free, 

O  loyal  heart  of  Tennessee  ? 

What  strange,  glad  voice  is  that  which  calls 

From  Wagner's  grave  and  Sumter's  walls  ? 

From  Mississippi's  fountain-head 
A  sound  as  of  the  bison's  tread  ! 
There  rustled  freedom's  Charter  Oak! 
In  that  wild  burst  the  Ozarks  spoke  ! 
Cheer  answers  cheer  from  rise  to  set 
Of  sun.     We  have  a  country  yet  1 

The  praise,  O  God,  be  thine  alone  ! 
Thou  givest  not  for  bread  a  stone  ; 
Thou  hast  not  led  us  through  the  night 
To  blind  us  with  returning  light  ; 
Not  through  the  furnace  have  we  passed, 
To  perish  at  its  mouth  at  last. 

O  night  of  peace,  thy  flight  restrain  ! 
November's  moon,  be  slow  to  wane  ! 
Shine  on  the  freedman's  cabin  floor, 
On  brows  of  prayer  a  blessing  pour  ; 
And  give,  with  full  assurance  blest, 
The  weary  heart  of  Freedom  rest  ! 


DISARMAMENT 

«  PUT  up  the  sword  !  "   The  voice  of  Christ 

once  more 

Speaks,  in  the  pauses  of  the  cannon's  roar, 
O'er  fields  of  corn  by  fiery  sickles  reaped 
And  left  dry  ashes  ;  over  trenches  heaped 
With  nameless  dead  ;  o'er  cities  starving 

slow 


Under  a   rain  of  fire  ;    through   wards  of 

woe 

Down  which  a  groaning  diapason  runs 
From  tortured  brothers,  husbands,  lovers, 

sons 

Of  desolate  women  in  their  far-off  homes, 
Waiting   to     hear    the    step    that    never 

comes  ! 
O  men   and   brothers !    let   that   voice   be 

heard. 
War  fails,  try  peace  ;  put  up  the  useless 

sword  ! 

Fear  not  the  end.     There  is  a  story  told 
In    Eastern   tents,   when    autumn    nights 

grow  cold, 
And  round  the  fire  the  Mongol  shepherds 

sit 

With  grave  responses  listening  unto  it  : 
Once,  on  the  errands  of  his  mercy  bent, 
Buddha,  the  holy  and  benevolent, 
Met   a   fell  monster,  huge   and   fierce   of 

look, 
Whose  awful  voice  the  hills  and   forests 

shook. 
"  O  son  of  peace  !  "  the  giant  cried,  "  thy 

fate 
Is  sealed   at  last,  and  love  shall  yield  to 

hate." 
The    unarmed   Buddha  looking,   with    no 

trace 

Of  fear  or  anger,  in  the  monster's  face, 
In  pity  said  :    "  Poor  fiend,   even   thee   I 

love." 

Lo  !  as  he  spake  the  sky-tall  terror  sank 
To  hand-breadth  size  ;  the  huge  abhorrence 

shrank 

Into  the  form  and  fashion  of  a  dove  ; 
And  where    the  thunder  of   its  rage  was 

heard, 

Circling  above  him  sweetly  sang  the  bird  : 
"  Hate  hath  no  harm  for  love,"  so  ran  the 

song; 
"And  peace  unweaponcl  conquers   every 

wrong  ! " 


THE   PROBLEM 

I 

NOT  without  envy  Wealth  at  times  must 

look 
On   their  brown  strength  who   wield    the 

reaping-hook 


OUR   COUNTRY 


383 


And  scythe,  or  at  the  forge-fire   shape 

the  plough 
Or  the  steel  harness  of  the  steeds  of  steam ; 

All  who,  by  skill  and  patience,  anyhow 
Make  service  noble,  and  the  earth  redeem 
From  savageness.     By  kingly  accolade 
Than  theirs  was  never  worthier  knighthood 

made. 
Well  for  them,  if,  while  demagogues  their 

vain 

And  evil  counsels  proffer,  they  maintain 
Their  honest  manhood   unseduced,  and 

wage 

No  war  with  Labor's  right  to  Labor's  gain 
Of  sweet  home-comfort,  rest  of  hand  and 

brain, 
And  softer  pillow  for  the  head  of  Age. 


And  well  for  Gain  if  it  ungrudging  yields 
Labor  its  just   demand  ;    and    well   for 

Ease 

If  in  the  uses  of  its  own,  it  sees 
No  wrong   to   him    who  tills  its  pleasant 

fields 

And  spreads  the  table  of  its  luxuries. 
The  interests  of  the  rich  man  and  the  poor 
Are  one  and  same,  inseparable  evermore  ; 
And,  when  scant  wage  or  labor  fail  to  give 
Food,     shelter,    raiment,    wherewithal    to 

live, 

Need  has  its  rights,  necessity  its  claim. 
Yea,  even  self-wrought  misery  and  shame 
Test  well  the  charity  suffering  long   and 

kind. 
The  home-pressed  question  of  the  age  can 

find 

No  answer  in  the  catch-words  of  the  blind 
Leaders  of  blind.     Solution  there  is  none 
Save  in  the  Golden  Rule  of  Christ  alone. 


OUR  COUNTRY 
Read  at  Woodstock,  Conn.,  July  4,  1883. 

WE  give  thy  natal  day  to  hope, 

O  Country  of  our  love  and  prayer  ! 

Thy  way  is  down  no  fatal  slope, 
But  up  to  freer  sun  and  air. 

Tried  as  by  furnace-fires,  and  yet 
By  God's  grace  only  stronger  made, 

In  future  tasks  before  thee  set 

Thou  shalt  not  lack  the  old-time  aid. 


The  fathers  sleep,  but  men  remain 
As  wise,  as  true,  and  brave  as  they; 

Why  count  the  loss  and  not  the  gain  ? 
The  best  is  that  we  have  to-day. 

Whate'er  of  folly,  shame,  or  crime, 
Within  thy  mighty  bounds  transpires, 

With  speed  defying  space  and  time, 
Comes  to  us  on  the  accusing  wires  ; 

While  of  thy  wealth  of  noble  deeds, 
Thy  homes  of  peace,  thy  votes  unsold, 

The  love  that  pleads  for  human  needs, 
The  wrong  redressed,  but  half  is  told  ! 

We  read  each  felon's  chronicle, 

His  acts,  his  words,  his  gallows-mood  ; 

We  know  the  single  sinner  well 
And  not  the  nine  and  ninety  good. 

Yet  if,  on  daily  scandals  fed, 

We  seem  at  times  to  doubt  thy  worth, 
We  know  thee  still,  when  all  is  said, 

The  best  and  dearest  spot  on  earth. 

From  the  warm  Mexic  Gulf,  or  where 
Belted  with  flowers  Los  Angeles 

Basks  in  the  semi-tropic  air, 

To  where  Katahdin's  cedar  trees 

Are  dwarfed  and  bent  by  Northern  winds, 
Thy  plenty's  horn  is  yearly  filled  ; 

Alone,  the  rounding  century  finds 
Thy  liberal  soil  by  free  hands  tilled. 

A  refuge  for  the  wronged  and  poor, 

Thy  generous  heart  has  borne  the  blame 

That,  with  them,  through  thy  open  door, 
The  old  world's  evil  outcasts  came. 

But,  with  thy  just  and  equal  rule, 

And  labor's  need  and  breadth  of  lands, 

Free  press  and  rostrum,  church  and  school^ 
Thy  sure,  if  slow,  transforming  hands, 

Shall  mould  even  them  to  thy  design, 
Making  a  blessing  of  the  ban  ; 

And  Freedom's  chemistry  combine 
The  alien  elements  of  man. 

The  power  that  broke  their  prison  bar 
And  set  the  dusky  millions  free, 

And  welded  in  the  flame  of  war 
The  Union  fast  to  Liberty, 


SONGS  OF   LABOR   AND   REFORM 


Shall  it  not  deal  with  other  ills, 

Redress  the  red  man's  grievance,  break 

The  Circeun  cup  which  shames  and  kills, 
And  Labor  full  requital  make  ? 

Alone  to  such  as  fitly  bear 

Thy  civic  honors  bid  them  fall  ? 

And  call  thy  daughters  forth  to  share 
The  rights  and  duties  pledged  to  all  ? 

Give  every  child  his  right  of  school, 
Merge  private  greed  in  public  good, 

And  spare  a  treasury  overfull 

The  tax  upon  a  poor  man's  food  ? 

No  lack  was  in  thy  primal  stock, 

No  weakling  founders  bnilded  here  ; 

Thine  were  the  men  of  Plymouth  Rock, 
The  Huguenot  and  Cavalier  ; 

And  they  whose  firm  endurance  gained 
The  freedom  of  the  souls  of  men, 

Whose  hands,  unstained  with  blood,  main 
tained 
The  s wordless  commonwealth  of  Penn. 

And  thine  shall  be  the  power  of  all 
To  do  the  work  which  duty  bids, 

And  make  the  people's  council  hall 
As  lasting  as  the  Pyramids  ! 

Well  have  thy  later  years  made  good 
Thy  brave-said  word  a  century  back, 

The  pledge  of  human  brotherhood, 
The  equal  claim  of  white  and  black. 

That  word  still  echoes  round  the  world, 
And  all  who  hear  it  turn  to  thee, 

And  read  upon  thy  flag  unfurled 
The  prophecies  of  destiny. 

Thy  great  world-lesson  all  shall  learn, 
The  nations  in  thy  school  shall  sit, 

Earth's  farthest  mountain-tops  shall  burn 
With  watch-fires  from  thy  own  uplit. 

Great  without  seeking  to  be  great 
By  fraud  or  conquest,  rich  in  gold, 

But  richer  in  the  large  estate 

Of  virtue  which  thy  chiHren  hold, 

With  peace  that  comes  of  purity 
And  strength  to  simple  justice  due, 

80  runs  our  loyal  dream  of  thee  ; 
God  of  our  fathers  !  make  it  true. 


O  Land  of  lands  !  to  thee  we  give 

Our  prayers,  our  hopes,  our  service  free  ; 

For  thee  thy  sons  shall  nobly  live, 
And  at  thy  need  shall  die  for  thee  ! 


ON  THE  BIG  HORN 

In  the  disastrous  battle  on  the  Big  Horn 
River,  in  which  General  Ouster  and  his  entire 
force  were  slain,  the  chief  Rain-in-the-Face 
•was  one  of  the  fiercest  leaders  of  the  Indians. 
In  Longfellow's  poem  on  the  massacre,  these 
lines  will  be  remembered  :  — 

"  Revenge  !  "  cried  Rain-in-the-Face, 
"  Revenge  upon  all  the  race 

Of  the  White  Chief  with  yellow  hair!" 
And  the  mountains  dark  and  high 
From  their  crags  reechoed  the  cry 
Of  his  anger  and  despair. 

He  is  now  a  man  of  peace  ;  and  the  agent  at 
Standing1  Rock,  Dakota,  writes,  September  28, 
1886  :  ' '  Rain-in-the-Face  is  very  anxious  to  go 
to  Hampton.  I  fear  he  is  too  old,  but  he  desires 
very  much  to  go."  The  Southern  Workman,  the 
organ  of  General  Armstrong's  Industrial  School 
at  Hampton,  Va.,  says  in  a  late  number  :  — 

"  Rain-in-the-Face  has  applied  before  to 
come  to  Hampton,  but  his  age  would  exclude 
him  from  the  school  as  an  ordinary  student. 
He  has  shown  himself  very  much  in  earnest 
about  it,  and  is  anxious,  all  say,  to  learn  the 
better  ways  of  life.  It  is  as  unusual  as  it  is 
striking  to  see  a  man  of  his  age,  and  one  who 
has  had  such  an  experience,  willing  to  give  ur 
the  old  way.  and  put  himself  in  the  position  o 
a  boy  and  a  student." 

THE  years  are  but  half  a  score, 
And  the  war-whoop  sounds  no  more 

With  the  blast  of  bugles,  where 
Straight  into  a  slaughter  pen, 
With  his  doomed  three  hundred  men, 

Rode  the  chief  with  the  yellow  hair. 

O  Hampton,  down  by  the  sea  ! 
What  voice  is  beseeching  thee 

For  the  scholar's  lowliest  place  ? 
Can  this  be  the  voice  of  him 
Who  fought  on  the  Big  Horn's  rim  ? 

Can  this  be  Rain-in-the-Face  ? 

His  war-paint  is  washed  away, 
His  hands  have  forgotten  to  slay  ; 

He  seeks  for  himself  and  his  race 
The  arts  of  peace  and  the  lore 
That  give  to  the  skilled  hand  more 

Than  the  spoils  of  war  and  chase, 


ON   THE   BIG   HORN 


385 


O  chief  of  the  Christ-like  school  ! 
Can  the  zeal  of  thy  heart  grow  cool 

When  the  victor  scarred  with  fight 
Like  a  child  for  thy  guidance  craves, 
And  the  faces  of  hunters  and  braves 

Are  turning  to  thee  for  light  ? 

The  hatchet  lies  overgrown 
With  grass  by  the  Yellowstone, 

Wind  River  and  Paw  of  Bear  ; 
And,  in  sign  that  foes  are  friends, 
Each  lodge  like  a  peace-pipe  sends 

Its  smoke  in  the  quiet  air. 

The  hands  that  have  done  the  wrong 
To  right  the  wronged  are  strong, 

And  the  voice  of  a  nation  saith  : 
Enough  of  the  war  of  swords, 
Enough  of  the  lying  words 

And  shame  of  a  broken  faith  1 " 


The  hills  that  have  watched  afar 
The  valleys  ablaze  with  war 

Shall  look  on  the  tasselled  corn  ; 
And  the  dust  of  the  grinded  grain, 
Instead  of  the  blood  of  the  slain, 

Shall  sprinkle  thy  banks,  Big  Horn  ! 

The  Ute  and  the  wandering  Crow 
Shall  know  as  the  white  men  know, 

And  fare  as  the  white  men  fare  ; 
The  pale  and  the  red  shall  be  brothers, 
One's  rights  shall  be  as  anotber's, 

Home,  School,  and  House  of  Prayer  J 

O  mountains  that  climb  to  snow, 
O  river  winding  below, 

Through  meadows  by  war  once  trod. 
O  wild,  waste  lands  that  await 
The  harvest  exceeding  great, 

Break  forth  into  praise  of  God  ! 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND    REMINISCENT 


MEMORIES 

["  It  was  not  without  thought  and  delibera 
tion,"  Whittier's  biographer  writes,  "  that  in 
1888  he  directed  this  poem  to  be  placed  at  the 
head  of  his  Poems  Subjective  and  Keminiscent. 
He  had  never  before  publicly  acknowledged 
how  much  of  his  heart  was  wrapped  up  in  this 
delightful  play  of  poetic  fancy.  The  poem  was 
written  in  1841,  and  although  the  romance  it 
embalms  lies  far  back  of  this  date,  possibly 
there  is  a  heart  still  beating  which  fully  under 
stands  its  meaning.  The  biographer  can  do  no 
more  than  make  this  suggestion,  which  has  the 
sanction  of  the  poet's  explicit  word.  To  a  friend 
who  told  him  that  Memories  was  her  favorite 
poem,  he  said,  '  I  love  it  too  ;  but  I  hardly 
knew  whether  to  publish  it,  it  was  so  personal 
and  near  my  heart.'  "] 

A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl, 

With  step  as  light  as  summer  air, 
Eyes  glad  with  smiles,  and  brow  of  pearl, 
Shadowed  by  many  a  careless  curl 

Of  unconfined  and  flowing  hair  ; 
A  seeming  child  in  everything, 

Save     thoughtful    brow     and     ripening 

charms, 
As  Nature  wears  the  smile  of  Spring 

When  sinking  into  Summer's  arms. 

A  mind  rejoicing  in  the  light 

Which    melted     through     its     graceful 

bower, 

Leaf  after  leaf,  dew-moist  and  bright, 
And  stainless  in  its  holy  white, 

Unfolding  like  a  morning  flower  : 
A  heart,  which,  like  a  fine-toned  lute, 

With  every  breath  of  feeling  woke, 
And,  even  when  the  tongue  was  mute, 

From  eye  and  lip  in  music  spoke. 

How   thrills    once    more     the    lengthening 
chain 

Of  memory,  at  the  thought  of  thee  ! 
Old  hopes  which  long  in  dust  have  lain, 
Old  dreams,  come  thronging  back  again, 

And  boyhood  lives  again  in  me  ; 


1  feel  its  glow  upon  my  cheek, 
Its  fulness  of  the  heart  is  mine, 

As  when  I  leaned  to  hear  thee  speak, 
Or  raised  my  doubtful  eye  to  thine. 

I  hear  again  thy  low  replies, 

I  feel  thy  arm  within  my  own, 
And  timidly  again  uprise 
The  fringed  lids  of  hazel  eyes, 

With  soft  brown  tresses  overblown. 
Ah  !   memories  cf  sweet  summer  eves, 

Of  moonlit  wave  and  willowy  way, 
Of  stars  and  flowers,  and  dewy  leaves, 

And  smiles  and    tones   more  dear  thai} 
they  ! 

Ere  this,  thy  quiet  eye  hath  smiled 

My  picture  of  thy  youth  to  see, 
When,  half  a  woman,  half  a  child, 
Thy  very  artlessness  beguiled, 

And  folly's  self  seemed  wise  in  thee  ; 
I  too  can  smile,  when  o'er  that  hour 

The  lights  of  memory  backward  stream, 
Yet  feel  the  while  that  manhood's  power 

Is  vainer  than  iny  boyhood's  dream. 

Years  have  passed  on,  and  left  their  trace, 

Of  graver  care  and  deeper  thought ; 
And  unto  me  the  calm,  cold  face 
Of  manhood,  and  to  thee  the  grace 

Of  woman's  pensive  beauty  brought. 
More    wide,    perchance,    for    blame    than 
praise, 

The  school-boy's  humble  name  has  flovrn  ; 
Thine,  in  the  green  and  quiet  ways 

Of  unobtrusive  goodness  known. 

And  wider  yet  in  thought  and  deed 

Diverge  our  pathways,  one  in  youth  ; 
Thine  the  Genevan's  sternest  creed, 
While  answers  to  my  spirit's  need 

The  Derby  dalesman's  simple  truth. 
For  thee,  the  priestly  rite  and  prayer, 

And  holy  day,  and  solemn  psalm  ; 
For  me,  the  silent  reverence  where 

My  brethren  gather,  slow  and  calm. 


186 


RAPHAEL 


387 


5Tet  hath  thy  spirit  left  on  me 

An  impress  Time  has  worn  not  out, 
And  something  of  myself  in  thee, 
A  shadow  from  the  past,  I  see, 

Lingering,  even  yet,  thy  way  about  ; 
Not  wholly  can  the  heart  unlearn 

That  lesson  of  its  better  hours, 
Not  yet  has  Time's  dull  footstep  worn 

To  common  dust  that  path  of  flowers. 

Thus,  while  at  times  before  our  eyes 

The  shadows  melt,  and  fall  apart, 
And,  smiling  through  them,  round  us  lies 
The  warm  light  of  our  morning  skies,  — 

The  Indian  Summer  of  the  heart ! 
In  secret  sympathies  of  mind, 

In  founts  of  feeling  which  retain 
Their  pure,  fresh  flow,  we  yet  may  find 

Our  early  dreams  not  wholly  vain  ! 


RAPHAEL 

Suggested  by  the  portrait  of  Raphael,  at  the 
age  of  fifteen. 

I  SHALL  not  soon  forget  that  sight  : 
The  glow  of  Autumn's  westering  day, 

A  hazy  warmth,  a  dreamy  light, 
On  Raphael's  picture  lay. 

It  was  a  simple  print  I  saw, 
The  fair  face  of  a  musing  boy  ; 

5Tet,  while  I  gazed,  a  sense  of  awe 
Seemec'  blending  with  my  joy. 

A  single  print,  —  the  graceful  flow 
Of  boyhood's  soft  and  wavy  hair, 

And  fresh  young  lip  and  cheek,  and  brow 
Unmarked  and  clear,  were  there. 

Yet  through  its  sweet  and  calm  repose 
I  saw  the  inward  spirit  shine  ; 

It  was  as  if  before  me  rose 
The  white  veil  of  a  shrine. 

As  if,  as  Gothland's  sage  has  told, 
The  hidden  life,  the  man  within, 

Dissevered  from  its  frame  and  mould, 
By  mortal  eye  were  seen. 

Was  it  the  lifting  of  that  eye, 

The  waving  of  that  pictured  hand  ? 

Loose  as  a  cloud-wreath  on  the  sky, 
I  saw  the  walls  expand. 


The  narrow  room  had  vanished,  —  space, 
Broad,  luminous,  remained  alone, 

Through  which  all  hues  and  shapes  of  grace 
And  beauty  looked  or  shone. 

Around  the  mighty  master  came 

The  marvels  which  his  pencil  wrought, 

Those  miracles  of  power  whose  fame 
Is  wide  as  human  thought. 

There  drooped  thy  more  than  mortal  face, 
O  Mother,  beautiful  and  mild  ! 

Enfolding  in  one  dear  embrace 
Thy  Saviour  and  thy  Child  ! 

The  rapt  brow  of  the  Desert  John  ; 

The  awful  glory  of  that  day 
When  all  the  Father's  brightness  shone 

Through  manhood's  veil  of  clay. 

And,  midst  gray  prophet  forms,  and  wild 
Dark  visions  of  the  days  of  old, 

How  sweetly  woman's  beauty  smiled 
Through  locks  of  brown  and  gold  ! 

There  Fornarina's  fair  young  face 
Once  more  upon  her  lover  shone, 

Whose  model  of  an  angel's  grace 
He  borrowed  from  her  own. 

Slow  passed  that  vision  from  my  view, 
But  not  the  lesson  which  it  taught  ; 

The  soft,  calm  shadows  which  it  threw 
Still  rested  on  my  thought : 

The  truth,  that  painter,  bard,  and  sage, 
Even  in  Earth's  cold  and  changeful  clime, 

Plant  for  their  deathless  heritage 
The  fruits  and  flowers  of  time. 

We  shape  ourselves  the  joy  or  fear 
Of  which  the  coming  life  is  made, 

And  fill  our  Future's  atmosphere 
With  sunshine  or  with  shade. 

The  tissue  of  the  Life  to  be 

We  weave  with  colors  all  our  own, 

And  in  the  field  of  Destiny 
We  reap  as  we  have  sown. 

Still  shall  the  soul  around  it  call 

The  shadows  which  it  gathered  here, 

And,  painted  on  the  eternal  wall, 
The  Past  shall  reappear. 


388 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND   REMINISCENT 


Think  ye  the  notes  of  holy  song 

On  Milton's  tuneful  ear  have  died  ? 

Think  ye  that  Raphael's  angel  throng 
Has  vanished  from  his  side  ? 

Oh  no  !  —  We  live  onr  life  again  ; 

Or  warmly  touched,  or  coldly  dim, 
The  pictures  of  the  Past  remain,  — 

Man's  works  shall  follow  him  ! 


EGO 

WRITTEN  IN  THE  ALBUM  OF  A  FRIEND 

[Originally  entitled  Lines  Written  in  the  Book 
of  a  Friend.] 

ON  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace 
The  cold  and  heartless  commonplace, 
A  statue's  fixed  and  marble  grace. 

For  ever  as  these  lines  I  penned, 

Still  with  the  thought  of  thee  will  blend 

That  of  some  loved  and  common  friend, 

Who  in  life's  desert  track  has  made 
His  pilgrim  tent  with  mine,  or  strayed 
Beneath  the  same  remembered  shade. 

And  hence  my  pen  unfettered  moves 
In  freedom  which  the  heart  approves, 
The  negligence  which  friendship  loves. 

And  wilt  thou  prize  my  poor  gift  less 
For  simple  air  and  rustic  dress, 
And  sign  of  haste  and  carelessness  ? 

Oh,  more  than  specious  counterfeit 

Of  sentiment  or  studied  wit, 

A  heart  like  thine  should  value  it. 

Yet  half  I  f  •'ar  my  gift  will  be 
Unto  thy  book,  if  not  to  thee, 
Of  more  than  doubtful  courtesy. 

A  banished  name  from  Fashion's  sphere, 

A  lay  unheard  of  Beauty's  ear, 

Forbid,  disowned,  —  what  do  they  here  ? 

Upon  my  ear  not  all  in  vain 

Came  the  sad  captive's  clanking  chain, 

The  groaning  from  his  bed  of  pain. 


And  sadder  still,  I  saw  the  woe 
Which  only  wounded  spirits  know 
When  Pride's  strong  footsteps  o'er  them 
go. 

Spurned  not  alone  in  walks  abroad, 
But  from  the  temples  of  the  Lord 
Thrust  out  apart,  like  things  abhorred. 

Deep  as  I  felt,  and  stern  and  strong, 

In  words  which  Prudence  smothered  long, 

My  soul  spoke  out  against  the  wrong  ; 

Not  mine  alone  the  task  to  speak 
Of  comfort  to  the  poor  and  weak, 
And  dry  the  tear  on  Sorrow's  cheek  ; 

But,  mingled  in  the  conflict  warm, 
To  pour  the  fiery  breath  of  storm 
Through  the  harsh  trumpet  of  Reform  ; 

To  brave  Opinion's  settled  frown, 
From  ermined  robe  and  saintly  gown, 
While  wrestling  reverenced  Error  down. 

Founts  gushed  beside  my  pilgrim  way, 
Cool  shadows  on  the  greensward  lay, 
Flowers  swung  upon  the  bending  spray. 

And,  broad  and  bright,  on  either  hand, 
Stretched  the  green  slopes  of  Fairy-land, 
With  Hope's  eternal  sunbow  spanned  ; 

Wlience  voices  called  me  like  the  flow, 
Which  on  the  listener's  ear  will  grow, 
Of  forest  streamlets  soft  and  low. 

And  gentle  eyes,  which  still  retain 
Their  picture  on  the  heart  and  brain, 
Smiled,  beckoning  from  that  path  of  pain. 

In  vain  !  nor  dream,  nor  rest,  nor  pause 
Remain  for  him  who  round  him  draws 
The  battered  mail  of  Freedom's  cause. 

From    youthful    hopes,    from   each    green 

spot 

Of  young  Romance,  and  gentle  Thought, 
Where  storm  and  tumult  enter  not ; 

From  each  fair  altar,  where  belong 
The  offerings  Love  requires  of  Song 
In  homage  to  her  bright-eyed  throng  ; 


EGO 


389 


With   soul  and   strength,  with   heart  and 

hand, 

I  turned  to  Freedom's  struggling  band, 
To  the  sad  Helots  of  our  land. 

What  marvel  then  that  Fame  should  turn 
Her  notes  of  praise  to  those  of  scorn  ; 
Her    gifts     reclaimed,     her    smiles    with 
drawn  ? 

What  matters  it  ?  a  few  years  more, 
Life's  surge  so  restless  heretofore 
Shall  break  upon  the  unknown  shore  ! 

In  that  far  land  shall  disappear 
The  shadows  which  we  follow  here, 
The  mist-wreaths  of  our  atmospheve  ! 

Before  no  work  of  mortal  hand, 
Of  human  will  or  strength  expand 
The  pearl  gates  of  the  Better  Land  ; 

Alone  in  that  great  love  which  gave 
Life  to  the  sleeper  of  the  grave, 
Resteth  the  power  to  seek  and  save. 

Yet,  if  the  spirit  gazing  through 

The  vista  of  the  past  can  view 

One  deed  to  Heaven  and  virtue  true  ; 

If  through  the  wreck  of  wasted  powers, 
Of  garlands  wreathed  from  Folly's  bowers, 
Of  idle  aims  and  misspent  hours, 

The  eye  can  note  one  sacred  spot 

By  Pride  and  Self  profaned  not, 

A  green  place  in  the  waste  of  thought, 

Where  deed  or  word  hath  rendered  less 
The  sum  of  human  wretchedness, 
And  Gratitude  looks  forth  to  bless  ; 

The  simple  burst  of  tenderest  feeling 
From  sad  hearts  worn  by  evil-dealino-, 
For  blessing  on  the  hand  of  healing ;° 

Better  than  Glory's  pomp  will  be 
Thai,  green  and  blessed  spot  to  me, 
A  palm-shade  in  Eternity  ! 

Something  of  Time  which  may  invite 
The  purified  and  spiritual  sight 
To  rest  on  with  a  calm  delight. 


And  when  the  summer  winds  shall  sweep 
With  their  light  wings  my  place  of  sleep, 
And  mosses  round  my  headstone  creep  ; 

If  still,  as  Freedom's  rallying  sign, 
Upon  the  young  heart's  altars  shine 
The  very  fires  they  caught  from  mine ; 

If  words  my  lips  once  uttered  still, 
In  the  calm  faith  and  steadfast  will 
Of  other  hearts,  their  work  fulfil  ; 

Perchance  with  joy  the  soul  may  learn 
These  tokens,  and  its  eye  discern 
The  fires  which  on  those  altars  burn  ; 

A  marvellous  joy  that  even  then, 

The  spirit  hath  its  life  again, 

In  the  strong  hearts  of  mortal  men. 

Take,  lady,  then,  the  gift  I  bring, 

No  gay  and  graceful  offering, 

No  flower-smile  of  the  laughing  spring. 

Midst   the   green   buds   of   Youth's  fres> 

May, 

With  Fancy's  leaf-enwoven  bay, 
My  sad  and  sombre  gift  I  lay. 

And  if  it  deepens  in  thy  mind 

A  sense  of  suffering  human-kind,  — 

The  outcast  and  the  spirit-blind  ; 

Oppressed  and  spoiled  on  every  side, 
By  Prejudice,  and  Scorn,  and  Pride, 
Life's  common  courtesies  denied  ; 

Sad  mothers  mourning  o'er  their  trust, 
Children  by  want  and  misery  nursed, 
Tasting  life's  bitter  cup  at  first  ; 

If  to  their  strong  appeals  which  come 
From  fireless  hearth,  and  crowded  room, 
And  the  close  alley's  noisome  gloom, — 

Though  dark  the  hands  upraised  to  thee 

In  mute  beseeching  agony, 

Thou  lend'st  thy  woman's  sympathy  ; 

Not  vainly  on  thy  gentle  shrine, 

Where    Love,  and   Mirth,  and  Friendship 

twine 
Their  varied  gifts,  I  offer  mine. 


39° 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND    REMINISCENT 


THE   PUMPKIN 

OH,  greenly  and  fair  in  the  lands  of  the 
sun, 

The  vines  of  the  gourd  and  the  rich  melon 
run, 

And  the  rock  and  the  tree  and  the  cottage 
enfold, 

With  broad  leaves  all  greenness  and  blos 
soms  all  gold, 

Like  that  which  o'er  Nineveh's  prophet  once 
grew, 

While  he  waited  to  know  that  his  warning 
was  true, 

And  longed  for  the  storm-cloud,  and  lis 
tened  in  vain 

For  the  rush  of  the  whirlwind  and  red  fire- 
rain. 

On  the  banks  of  the  Xenil  the  dark  Spanish 

maiden 
Comes  up  with  the  fruit  of  the  tangled  vine 

laden  ; 

And   the  Creole  of  Cuba  laughs  out  to  be 
hold 
Through  orange-leaves    shining  the  broad 

spheres  of  gold  ; 
Yet  with  dearer  delight  from  his  home  in 

the  North, 
On  the  fields  of   his    harvest   the  Yankee 

looks  forth, 
Where  crook-necks  are  coiling  and  yellow 

fruit  shines, 
And  the  sun  of  September  melts  down  on 

his  vines. 

Ah  !  on  Thanksgiving  day,  when  from  East 
and  from  West, 

From  North  and  from  South  come  the  pil 
grim  and  guest, 

When  the  gray-haired  New  Englander  sees 
round  his  board 

The  old  broken  links  of  affection  restored, 

When  the  care-wearied  man  seeks  his  mo 
ther  once  more, 

And  the  worn  matron  smiles  where  the  girl 
smiled  before, 

What  moistens  the  lip  and  what  brightens 
the  eye  ? 

What  calls  back  the  past,  like  the  rich 
Pumpkin  pie  ? 

Ob.,  fruit  loved  of  boyhood  !  the  old  days 
recalling, 


When    wood-grapes    were    purpling    and 

brown  nuts  were  falling  ! 
WThen  wild,  ugly    faces  we  carved   in   its 

skin, 
Glaring  out  through  the  dark  with  a  candle 

within  ! 
When   we    laughed   round   the  corn-heap, 

with  hearts  all  in  tune, 
Our  chair  a  broad  pumpkin,  —  our  lantern 

the  moon, 
Telling  tales  of  the  fairy  who  travelled  like 

steam, 
In  a  pumpkin-shell  coach,  with  two  rats  for 

her  team  ! 

Then  thanks  for  thy  present  !  none  sweeter 

or  better 
E'er  smoked   from   an  oven  or   circled    a 

platter  ! 
Fairer    hands  never  wrought  at   a  pastry 

more  fine, 
Brighter  eyes  never  watched  o'er  its  bak 

ing,  than  thine  ! 
And   the    prayer,  which  my  mouth  is  too 

full  to  express, 
Swells   my    heart  that    thy   shadow   may 

never  be  less, 
That  the  days  of  thy  lot  may  be  length 

ened  below, 
And  the  fame  of  thy  worth  like  a  pumpkin- 

vine  grow, 
And  thy  life  be  as  sweet,  and  its  last  sun 

set  sky 
Golden-tinted  and  fair  as  thy  own  Pumpkin 

pie  ! 


FORGIVENESS 

MY    heart   was   heavy,  for  its   trust   had 

been 
Abused,  its  kindness  answered  with  foul 

wrong  ; 
So,    turning    gloomily    from    my    fellow- 

men, 
One    summer   Sabbath    day   I   strolled 

among 
The    green  mounds  of  the  village  burial- 

place  ; 
Where,  pondering  how  all  human  love 

and  hate 
Find  one  sad  level  ;    and  how,  soon   01 

late, 

Wronged  and  wrongdoer,  each  with  meek' 
ened  face, 


MY   THANKS 


39 1 


And  cold  hands  folded  over  a  still  heart, 
Pass  the  green  threshold  of  our  common 

grave, 
Whither  all  footsteps  tend,  whence  none 

depart, 

Awed  for  myself,  and  pitying  my  race, 
Our  common  sorrow,  like  a  mighty  wave, 
Swept  all  my  pride  away,  and  trembling  I 
forgave  ! 


TO    MY    SISTER 

WITH  A   COPY  OF  "THE  SUPERNATU- 
RALISM  OF  NEW  ENGLAND" 

The  work  referred  to  was  a  series  of  papers 
under  this  title,  contributed  to  the  Democratic 
Review  and  afterward  collected  into  a  volume, 
in  which  I  noted  some  of  the  superstitions  and 
folklore  prevalent  in  New  England.  The  vol 
ume  has  not  been  kept  in  print,  but  most  of 
its  contents  are  distributed  in  my  Literary 
Recreations  and  Miscellanies  [now  scattered  in 
volumes  v.  and  vi.  of  the  Riverside  edition]. 

DEAR  Sister  !  while  the  wise  and  sage 
Turn  coldly  from  my  playful  page, 
And  count  it  strange  that  ripened  age 

Should  stoop  to  boyhood's  folly  ; 
I  know  that  thou  wilt  judge  aright 
Of  all  which  makes  the  heart  more  light, 
Or  lends  one  star-gleam  to  the  night 

Of  clouded  Melancholy. 

Away  with  weary  cares  and  themes  ! 
Swing  wide  the  moonlit  gate  of  dreams  ! 
Leave    free    once   more    the     land   which 
teems 

With  wonders  and  romances  ! 
Where  thou,  with  clear  discerning  eyes, 
Shalt  rightly  read  the  truth  which  lies 
Beneath  the  quaintly  masking  guise 

Of  wild  and  wizard  fancies. 

Lo  !  once  again  our  feet  we  set 

On  still  frreen  wood-paths,  twilight  wet, 

By  lonely  brooks,  whose  waters  fret 

The  roots  of  spectral  beeches  ; 
Again  the  hearth-fire  glimmers  o'er 
Home's    whitewashed    wall    and    painted 

floor, 
And  young  eyes  widening  to  the  lore 

Of  faery-folks  and  witches. 


Dear  heart  !  the  legend  is  not  vain 
Which  lights  that  holy  hearth  again, 
And  calling  back  from  care  and  pain, 

And  death's  funereal  sadness, 
Draws  round  its  old  familiar  blaze 
The  clustering  groups  of  happier  days, 
And  lends  to  sober  manhood's  gaze 

A  glimpse  of  childish  gladness. 

And,  knowing  how  my  life  hath  been 

A  weary  work  of  tongue  and  pen, 

A  long,  harsh  strife  with  strong-willed  meE 

Thou  wilt  not  chide  my  turning 
To  con,  at  times,  an  idle  rhyme, 
To  pluck  a  flower  from  childhood's  clime, 
Or  listen,  at  Life's  noonday  chime, 

For  the  sweet  bells  of  Morning  ! 

MY   THANKS 

ACCOMPANYING    MANUSCRIPTS    PRE 
SENTED   TO   A    FRIEND 

[Formerly  entitled  Lines.] 

'T  18  said  that  in  the  Holy  Land 

The  angels  of  the  place  have  blessed 

The  pilgrim's  bed  of  desert  sand, 
Like  Jacob's  stone  of  rest. 

That  down  the  hush  of  Syrian  skies 

Some  sweet-voiced  saint  at  twilight  sing 

The  song  whose  holy  symphonies 
Are  beat  by  unseen  wings  ; 

Till  starting  from  his  sandy  bed, 
The  wayworn  wanderer  looks  to  see 

The  halo  of  an  angel's  head 

Shine  through  the  tamarisk-tree. 

So  through  the  shadows  of  my  way 
Thy  smile  hath  fallen  soft  and  clear, 

So  at  the  weary  close  of  day 

Hath  seemed  thy  voice  of  cheer. 

That  pilgrim  pressing  to  his  goal 
May  pause  not  for  the  vision's  sake. 

Yet  all  fair  things  within  his  soul 
The  thought  of  it  shall  wake  : 

The  graceful  palm -tree  by  the  well, 

Seen  on  the  far  horizon's  rim  ; 
The  dark  eyes  of  the  fleet  gazelle, 

Bent  timidly  on  him  ; 


392 


POP;MS    SUBJECTIVE   AND    REMINISCENT 


Each  pictured  saint,  whose  golden  hair 
Streams  sunlike  through   the    convent's 
gloom  ; 

Pale  shrines  of  martyrs  young  and  fair, 
And  loving  Mary's  tomb  ; 

And  thus  each  tint  or  shade  which  falls, 
From  sunset  cloud  or  waving  tree, 

Along  my  pilgrim  path,  recalls 
The  pleasant  thought  of  thee. 

Of  one  in  sun  and  shade  the  same, 
In  weal  and  woe  my  steady  friend, 

Whatever  by  that  holy  name 
The  angels  comprehend. 

Not  blind  to  faults  and  follies,  thou 
Hast  never  failed  the  good  to  see, 

Nor  judged  by  one  unseemly  bough 
The  upward-struggling  tree. 

These  light  leaves  at  thy  feet  I  lay,  — 
Poor    common     thoughts    on    common 
things, 

Which  Time  is  shaking,  day  by  day, 
Like  feathers  from  his  wings  ; 

Chance  shootings  from  a  frail  life-tree, 
To  nurturing  care  but  little  known. 

Their  good  was  partly  learned  of  thee, 
Their  folly  is  my  own. 

That  tree  still  clasps  the  kindly  mould, 
Its  leaves  still  drink  the  twilight  dew, 

A. nd  weaving  its  pale  green  with  gold, 
Still  shines  the  sunlight  through. 

There  still  the  morning  zephyrs  play, 

And    there    at    times    the    spring    bird 
sings, 

And  mossy  trunk  and  fading  spray 
Are  flowered  with  glossy  wings. 

f  et,  even  in  genial  sun  and  rain, 

Root,  branch,  and  leaflet  fail  and  fade  ; 

The  wanderer  on  its  lonely  plain 
Ei  elong  shall  miss  its  shade. 

0  friend  beloved,  whope  curious  skill 

Keeps  bright  the  last  year's  leaves  and 

flowers, 
With    warm,    glad,    summer   thoughts    to 

fill 
The  cold,  dark,  winter  hours  ! 


Pressed  on  thy  heart,  the  leaves  I  bring 
May  well  defy  the  wintry  cold. 

Until,  in  Heaven's  eternal  spring, 
Life's  fairer  ones  unfold. 


REMEMBRANCE 

WITH    COPIES    OF    THE    AUTHOR'S 
WRITINGS 


FRIEND  of  mine  !  whose  lot 
With  me  in  the  distant  past  ; 
Where,  like  shadows  flitting  fast, 

Fact  and  fancy,  thought  and  theme, 
Word  and  work,  begin  to  seem 
Like  a  half-remembered  dream  1 

Touched  by  change  have  all  things  been 
Yet  I  think  of  thee  as  when 
We  had  speech  of  lip  and  pen. 

For  the  calm  thy  kindness  lent 
To  a  path  of  discontent, 
Rough  with  trial  and  dissent  ; 

Gentle  words  where  such  were  few, 
Softening  blame  where  blame  was  true, 
Praising  where  small  praise  was  due  ; 

For  a  waking  dream  made  good, 

For  an  ideal  understood, 

For  thy  Christian  womanhood  ; 

For  thy  marvellous  gift  to  cull 
From  our  common  life  and  dull 
Whatsoe'er  is  beautiful  ; 

Thoughts  and  fancies,  Hybla's  bees 
Dropping  sweetness  ;  true  heart's-ease 
Of  congenial  sympathies  ;  — 

Still  for  these  I  own  my  debt ; 
Memory,  with  her  eyelids  wet, 
Fain  would  thank  thee  even  yet  I 

And  as  one  who  scatters  flowers 
Where  the  Queen  of  Mayrs  sweet  hours 
Sits,  o'ertwined  with  blossomed  bowers 

In  superfluous  zeal  bestowing 
Gifts  where  gifts  are  overflowing, 
So  I  pay  the  debt  I  'm  owing. 


MY    NAMESAKE 


393 


To  thy  full  thoughts,  gay  or  sad, 
Sunny-hued  or  sober  clad, 
Something  of  ray  own  I  add  ; 

Well  assured  that  thou  wilt  take 
Even  the  offering  which  I  make 
Kindly  for  the  giver's  sake. 


MY    NAMESAKE 

Addressed  to  Francis  Greenleaf  Allinson  of 
Burlington,  N.  J. 

You  scarcely  need  my  tardy  thanks, 
Who,  self-rewarded,  nurse  and  tend  — 

A  green  leaf  on  your  own  Green  Banks  — 
The  memory  of  your  friend. 

For  me,  no  wreath,  bloom-woven,  hides 
The  sobered  bi-ow  and  lessening  hair  : 

For  aught  I  know,  the  myrtled  sides 
Of  Helicon  are  bare. 

Their  scallop-shells  so  many  bring 
The  fabled  founts  of  song  to  try, 

They  've  drained,  for  aught  I  know,  the 

spring 
Of  Aganippe  dry. 

Ah  well  !  —  The  wreath  the  Muses  braid 
Proves  often  Folly's  cap  and  bell  ; 

Methinks,  my  ample  beaver's  shade 
May  serve  my  turn  as  well. 

jLet  Love's  and  Friendship's  tender  debt 
Be  paid  by  those  I  love  in  life. 

Why  should  the  unborn  critic  whet 
For  me  his  scalping-knife  ? 

Why  should  the  stranger  peer  and  pry 
One's  vacant  house  of  life  about, 

And  drag  for  curious  ear  and  eye 
His  faults  and  follies  out  ?  — 

Why  stuff,  for  fools  to  gaze  upon, 
With  chaff  of  words,  the  garb  he  wore, 

As  corn-husks  when  the  ear  is  gone 
Are  rustled  all  the  more  ? 

Let  kindly  Silence  close  again, 
The  picture  vanish  from  the  eye, 

And  on  the  dim  and  misty  main 
Let  the  small  ripple  die. 


Yet  not  the  less  I  own  your  claim 

To  grateful  thanks,  dear  friends  of  mine, 

Hang,  if  it  please  you  so,  my  name 
Upon  your  household  line. 

Let  Fame  from  brazen  lips  blow  wide 
Her  chosen  names,  I  envy  none  : 

A  mother's  love,  a  father's  pride, 
Shall  keep  alive  ray  own ! 

Still  shall  that  name  as  now  recall 

The  young  leaf  wet  with  morning  dew, 

The  glory  where  the  sunbeams  fall 
The  breezy  woodlands  through. 

That  name  shall  be  a  household  word, 
A  spell  to  waken  smile  or  sigh  ; 

In  many  an  evening  prayer  be  heard 
And  cradle  lullaby. 

And  thou,  dear  child,  in  riper  days 
When  asked  the  reason  of  thy  name, 

Shalt  answer  :  "  One  't  were  vain  to  prais« 
Or  censure  bore  the  same. 

"  Some   blamed   him,  some    believed   him 
good, 

The  truth  lay  doubtless  'twixt  the  two  ; 
He  reconciled  as  best  he  could 

Old  faith  and  fancies  new. 

"  In  him  the  grave  and  playful  mixed, 
And  wisdom  held  with  folly  truce, 

And  Nature  compromised  betwixt 
Good  fellow  and  recluse. 

"  He  loved  his  friends,  forgave  his  foes  ; 

And,  if  his  words  were  harsh  at  times. 
He  spared  his  fellow-men,  — his  blows 

Fell  only  on  their  crimes. 

"  He  loved  the  good  and  wise,  but  found 

His  human  heart  to  all  akin 
Who  met  him  on  the  common  ground 

Of  suffering  and  of  sin. 

"  Whate'er  his  neighbors  might  endure 
Of  pain  or  grief  his  own  became  ; 

For  all  the  ills  he  could  not  cure 
He  held  himself  to  blame. 

"  His  good  was  mainly  an  intent, 
His  evil  not  of  forethought  done  ; 

The  work  he  wrought  was  rarely  meant 
Or  finished  as  begun. 


394 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND    REMINISCENT 


**  111  servea  his  tides  of  feeling  strong 
To  turn  the  common  mills  of  use  ; 

And,  over  restless  wings  of  song, 
His  birthright  garb  hung  loose  ! 

"  His  eye  was  beauty's  powerless  slave, 
And  his  the  ear  which  discord  pains  ; 

Few  guessed  beneath  his  aspect  grave 
What  passions  strove  in  chains. 

"  He  had  his  share  of  care  and  pain, 

No  holiday  was  life  to  him  ; 
Still  in  the  heirloom  cup  we  drain 

The  bitter  drop  will  swim. 

"  Yet  Heaven  was  kind,  and  here  a  bird 
And  there  a  flower  beguiled  his  way  ; 

And  cool,  in  summer  noons,  he  heard 
The  fountains  plash  and  play. 

"  On  all  his  sad  or  restless  moods 
The  patient  peace  of  Nature  stole  ; 

The  quiet  of  the  fields  and  woods 
Sank  deep  into  his  soul. 

"  He  worshipped  as  his  fathers  did, 
And  kept  the  faith  of  childish  days, 

And,  howsoe'er  he  strayed  or  slid, 
He  loved  the  good  old  ways. 

"  The  simple  tastes,  the  kindly  traits, 
The  tranquil  air,  and  gentle  speech, 

The  silence  of  the  soul  that  waits 
For  more  than  man  to  teach. 

"  The  cant  of  party,  school,  and  sect, 
Provoked  at  times  his  honest  scorn, 

And  Folly,  in  its  gray  respect, 
He  tossed  on  satire's  horn. 

"  But  still  his  heart  was  full  of  awe 
And  reverence  for  all  sacred  things  ; 

And,  brooding  over  form  and  law, 
He  saw  the  Spirit's  wings  ! 

"  Life's  mystery  wrapt  him  like  a  cloud  ; 

He  heard  far  voices  mock  his  own, 
The  sweep  of  wings  unseen,  the  loud, 

Long  roll  of  waves  unknown. 

*  The  arrows  of  his  straining  sight 

Fell   quenched   in  darkness  ;  priest   and 
sage, 

Like  lost  guides  calling  left  and  right, 
Perplexed  his  doubtful  age. 


"  Like  childhood,  listening  for  the  sound 
Of  its  dropped  pebbles  in  the  well, 

All  vainly  down  the  dark  profound 
His  brief-lined  plummet  fell. 

"  So,  scattering  flowers  with  pious  pains 

On  old  beliefs,  of  later  creeds, 
Which   claimed    a    place    in    Truth's   do 
mains, 

He  asked  the  title-deeds. 

"  He  saw  the  old-time's  groves  and  shrines 
In  the  long  distance  fair  and  dim  ; 

And  heard,  like  sound  of  far-off  pines, 
The  century-mellowed  hymn  ! 

"  He  dared  not  mock  the  Dervish  whirl, 
The  Brahmin's  rite,  the  Lama's  spell ; 

God  knew  the  heart  ;  Devotion's  pearl 
Might  sanctify  the  shell. 

"  WThile  others  trod  the  altar  stairs 
He  faltered  like  the  publican  ; 

And,     while     they  praised  as    saints,   his 

prayers 
Were  those  of  sinful  man. 

"  For,  awed  by  Sinai's  Mount  of  Law, 
The  trembling  faith  alone  sufficed, 

That,   through    its    cloud    and    flame,   he 

saw 
The  sweet,  sad  face  of  Christ  ! 

"  And  listening,  with  his  forehead  bowed, 
Heard  the  Divine  compassion  fill 

The  pauses  of  the  trump  and  cloud 
With  whispers  small  and  still. 

"  The    words   he    spake,   the    thoughts   he 
penned, 

Are  mortal  as  his  hand  and  brain, 
But,  if  they  served  the  Master's  end, 

He  has  not  lived  in  vain  ! " 

Heaven  make  thee  better  than  thy  name, 
Child    of    my    friends  !  —  For    thee    I 
crave 

WThat  riches  never  bought,  nor  fame 
To  mortal  longing  gave. 

I  pray  the  prayer  of  Plato  old  : 
God  make  thee  beautiful  within, 

And  let  thine  eyes  the  good  behold 
In  everything  save  sin  1 


MY   DREAM 


395 


Imagination  held  in  check 

To  serve,  not  rule,  thy  poised  mind  ; 
Thy  Reason,  at  the  frown  or  beck 

Of  Conscience,  loose  or  bind. 

No  dreamer  thou,  but  real  all,  — 

Strong  manhood  crowning  vigorous  youth 

Life  made  by  duty  epical 

And  rhythmic  with  the  truth. 

So  shall  that  life  the  fruitage  yield 
Which  trees  of  healing  only  give, 

And  green-leafed  in  the  Eternal  field 
Of  God,  forever  live  ! 


A    MEMORY 

[The  singer  in  this  poem  was  a  daughter  of 
Whittier's  early  friend,  N.  P.  Rogers.] 

HERE,  while  the  loom  of  Winter  weaves 
The  shroud  of  flowers  and  fountains, 

I  think  of  thee  and  summer  eves 
Among  the  Northern  mountains. 

When  thunder  tolled  the  twilight's  close, 
And  winds  the  lake  were  rude  on, 

And  thou  wert  singing,  Co1  the  Yowes, 
The  bonny  yowes  of  Cluden  ! 

When,  close  and  closer,  hushing  breath, 
Our  circle  narrowed  round  thee, 

A.nd  smiles  and  tears  made  up  the  wreath 
Wherewith  our  silence  crowned  thee  ; 

And,  strangers  all,  we  felt  the  ties 

Of  sisters  and  of  brothers  ; 
Ah  !  whose  of  all  those  kindly  eyes 

Now  smile  upon  another's  ? 

The  sport  of  Time,  who  still  apart 

The  waifs  of  life  is  flinging  ; 
Oh,  nevermore  shall  heart  to  heart 

Draw  nearer  for  that  singing  ! 

Yet  when  the  panes  are  frosty-starred, 
And  twilight's  fire  is  gleaming, 

1  hear  the  songs  of  Scotland's  bard 
Sound  softly  through  my  dreaming  ! 

A  song  that  lends  to  winter  snows 
The  glow  of  summer  weather,  — 

Again  I  hear  thee  ca'  the  yowes 
To  Cludau's  hills  of  heather  ! 


MY   DREAM 

IN  my  dream,  methought  I  trod, 
Yesternight,  a  mountain  road  ; 
Narrow  as  Al  Sirat's  span, 
High  as  eagle's  flight,  it  ran. 

Overhead,  a  roof  of  cloud 
With  its  weight  of  thunder  bowed  ; 
Underneath,  to  left  and  right, 
Blankness  arid  abysmal  night. 

Here  and  there  a  wild-flower  blushed  \ 
Now  and  then  a  bird-song  gushed  ; 
Now  and  then,  through  rifts  of  shade, 
Stars  shone  out,  and  sunbeams  played 

But  the  goodly  company, 
Walking  in  that  path  with  me, 
One  by  one  the  brink  o'erslid, 
One  by  one  the  darkness  hid. 

Some  with  wailing  and  lament, 
Some  with  cheerful  courage  went  ; 
But,  of  all  who  smiled  or  mourned. 
Never  one  to  us  returned. 

Anxiously,  with  eye  and  ear, 
Questioning  that  shadow  drear, 
Never  hand  in  token  stirred, 
Fever  answering  voice  I  heard  ! 

Steeper,  darker  !  —  lo  !  I  felt 
From  my  feet  the  pathway  melt, 
Swallowed  by  the  black  despair, 
And  the  hungry  jaws  of  air, 

Past  the  stony-throated  caves, 
Strangled  by  the  wash  of  waves, 
Past  the  splintered  crags,  I  sank 
On  a  green  and  flowery  bank,  — 

Soft  as  fall  of  thistle-down, 
Lightly  as  a  cloud  is  blown, 
Soothingly  as  childhood  pressed 
To  the  bosom  of  its  rest. 

Of  the  sharp-horned  rocks  instead. 
Green  the  grassy  meadows  spreads 
Bright  with  waters  singing  by 
Trees  that  propped  a  golden  sky* 

Painless,  trustful,  sorrow-free, 
Old  lost  faces  welcomed  me, 


396 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND    REMINISCENT 


With  whose  sweetness  of  content 
Still  expectant  hope  was  blent. 

Waking  while  the  dawning  gray 
Slowly  brightened  into  day, 
Pondering  that  vision  fled, 
Thus  unto  myself  I  said:  — 

;<  Steep  and  hung  with  clouds  of  strife 
Is  our  narrow  path  of  life; 
And  our  death  the  dreaded  fall 
Through  the  dark,  awaiting  all. 

"  So,  with  painful  steps  we  climb 
Up  the  dizzy  ways  of  time, 
Ever  in  the  shadow  shed 
By  the  forecast  of  our  dread. 

"  Dread  of  mystery  solved  alone, 
Of  the  untried  and  unknown; 
Yet  the  end  thereof  may  seem 
Like  the  falling  of  my  dream. 

"  And  this  heart-consuming  care. 
All  our  fears  of  here  or  there, 
Change  and  absence,  loss  and  death, 
Prove  but  simple  lack  of  faith." 

Thou,  O  Most  Compassionate  ! 
Who  didst  stoop  to  our  estate, 
Drinking  of  the  cup  we  drain, 
Treading  in  our  path  of  pain,  — 

Through  the  doubt  and  mystery, 
Grant  to  us  thy  steps  to  see, 
And  the  grace  to  draw  from  thence 
Larger  hope  and  confidence. 

Show  thy  vacant  tomb,  and  let, 
As  of  old,  the  angels  sit, 
Whispering,  by  its  open  door  : 
"  Fear  not  !     He  hath  gone  before  !  " 


THE    BAREFOOT   BOY 


BLESSINGS  on  thee,  little  man, 
Barefoot  boy,  with  cheek  of  tan  ! 
With  thy  turned-up  pantaloons, 
And  thy  merry  whistled  tunes  ; 
With  thy  red  lip,  redder  still 
Kissed  by  strawberries  on  the  hill  ; 
With  the  sunshine  on  thy  face, 
Through  thy  torn  brim's  jaunty  grace; 
From  my  heart  I  give  thee  joy.  — 


I  was  once  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

Prince  thou  art,  —  the  grown-up  man 

Only  is  republican. 

Let  the  million-dollared  ride  ! 

Barefoot,  trudging  at  his  side, 

Thou  hast  more  than  he  can  buy 

In  the  reach  of  ear  and  eye, — 

Outward  sunshine,  inward  joy: 

Blessings  on  thee,  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  painless  play, 
Sleep  that  wakes  in  laughing  daj, 
Health  that  mocks  the  doctor's  rules, 
Knowledge  never  learned  of  schools, 
Of  the  wild  bee's  morning  chase, 
Of  the  wild-flower's  time  and  place, 
Flight  of  fowl  and  habitude 
Of  the  tenants  of  the  wood; 
How  the  tortoise  bears  his  shell, 
How  the  woodchuck  digs  his  cell, 
And  the  ground-mole  sinks  his  well; 
How  the  robin  feeds  her  young, 
How  the  oriole's  nest  is  hung; 
Where  the  whitest  lilies  blow, 
Where  the  freshest  berries  grow, 
Where  the  ground-nut  trails  its  vine, 
Where  the  wood-grape's  clusters  shine; 
Of  the  black  wasp's  cunning  way, 
Mason  of  his  walls  of  clay, 
And  the  architectural  plans 
Of  gray  hornet  artisans  ! 
For,  eschewing  books  and  tasks, 
Nature  answers  all  he  asks  ; 
Hand  in  hand  with  her  he  walks, 
Face  to  face  with  her  he  talks, 
Part  and  parcel  of  her  joy,  — 
Blessings  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh  for  boyhood's  time  of  June. 
Crowding  vears  in  one  brief  moon, 
When  all  things  I  heard  or  saw, 
Me,  their  master,  waited  for. 
I  was  rich  in  flowers  and  trees, 
Humming-birds  and  honey-bees  ; 
For  my  sport  the  squirrel  played, 
Plied  the  snouted  mole  his  spade  ; 
For  my  taste  the  blackberry  cone 
Purpled  over  hedge  and  stone  ; 
Laughed  the  brook  for  my  delight 
Through  the  day  and  through  the  night, 
Whispering  at  the  garden  wall, 
Talked  with  me  from  fall  to  fall; 
Mine  the  sand-rimmed  pickerel  pond, 
Mine  the  walnut  slopes  beyond, 
Mine,  on  bending  orchard  trees, 


MY   PSALM 


397 


Apples  of  Hesperides  ! 
Still  as  my  horizon  grew, 
Larger  grew  my  riches  too  t 
All  the  world  I  saw  or  knew 
Seemed  a  complex  Chinese  toy, 
Fashioned  for  a  barefoot  boy  ! 

Oh  for  festal  dainties  spread, 
Like  my  bowl  of  milk  and  bread  ; 
Pewter  spoon  and  bowl  of  wood, 
On  the  door-stone,  gray  and  rude  ! 
O'er  me,  like  a  regal  tent, 
Cloudy-ribbed,  the  sunset  bent, 
Purple-curtained,  fringed  with  gold, 
Looped  in  many  a  wind-swung  fold  ; 
While  for  music  came  the  play 
Of  the  pied  frogs'  orchestra  ; 
And,  to  light  the  noisy  choir, 
Lit  the  fly  his  lamp  of  fire. 
I  was  monarch  :  pomp  and  joy 
Waited  on  the  barefoot  boy  ! 

Cheerily,  then,  my  little  man, 
Live  and  laugh,  as  boyhood  can  ! 
Though  the  flinty  slopes  be  hard, 
Stubble-speared  the  new-mown  sward, 
Every  morn  shall  lead  thee  through 
Fresh  baptisms  of  the  dew  ; 
Every  evening  from  thy  feet 
Shall  the  cool  wind  kiss  the  heat  : 
All  too  soon  these  feet  must  hide 
In  the  prison  cells  of  pride, 
Lose  the  freedom  of  the  sod, 
Like  a  colt's  for  work  be  shod, 
Made  to  tread  the  mills  of  toil, 
Up  and  down  in  ceaseless  moil : 
Happy  if  their  track  be  found 
Never  on  forbidden  ground  ; 
Happy  if  they  sink  not  in 
Quick  and  treacherous  sands  of  sin. 
Ah  !  that  thou  couldst  know  thy  joy, 
Ere  it  passes,  barefoot  boy  ! 

MY   PSALM 

I  MOURN  no  more  my  vanished  years: 

Beneath  a  tender  rain, 
An  April  rain  of  smiles  and  tears, 

My  heart  is  young  again. 

The  west-winds  blow,  and,  singing  low, 
I  hear  the  glad  streams  run  ; 

The  windows  of  my  soul  I  throw 
Wide  or>en  to  the  sun. 


No  longer  forward  nor  behind 

I  look  in  hope  or  fear  ; 
But,  grateful,  take  the  good  I  find, 

The  best  of  now  and  here. 

I  plough  no  more  a  desert  land, 

To  harvest  weed  and  tare  ; 
The  manna  dropping  from  God's  hand 

Rebukes  my  painful  care. 

I  break  my  pilgrim  staff,  I  lay 

Aside  the  toiling  oar  ; 
The  angel  sought  so  far  away 

I  welcome  at  my  door. 

The  airs  of  spring  may  never  play 

Among  the  ripening  corn, 
Nor  freshness  of  the  flowers  of  May 

Blow  through  the  autumn  morn  ; 

Yet  shall  the  blue-eyed  gentian  look 
Through  fringed  lids  to  heaven, 

And  the  pale  aster  in  the  brook 
Shall  see  its  image  given  ;  — 

The  woods  shall  wear  their  robes  of  praise, 

The  south-wind  softly  sigh, 
And  sweet,  calm  days  in  golden  haze 

Melt  down  the  amber  sky. 

Not  less  shall  manly  deed  and  word 

Rebuke  an  age  of  wrong  ; 
The  graven  flowers  that  wreathe  the  sword 

Make  not  the  blade  less  strong. 

But  smiting  hands  shall  learn  to  heal,  — 

To  build  as  to  destroy  ; 
Nor  less  my  heart  for  others  feel 

That  I  the  more  enjoy. 

All  as  God  wills,  who  wisely  heeds 

To  give  or  to  withhold, 
And  knoweth  more  of  all  my  needs 

Than  all  my  prayers  have  told  ! 

Enough  that  blessings  undeserved 
Have  marked  my  erring  track  ; 

That  wheresoe'er  my  feet  have  swerved, 
His  chastening  turned  me  back  ; 

That  more  and  more  a  Providence 

Of  love  is  understood, 
Making  the  springs  of  time  and  sense 

Sweet  with  eternal  good  ;  — 


398 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND    REMINISCENT 


That  death  seems  but  a  covered  way 
Which  opens  into  light, 

Wherein  no  blinded  child  can  stray 
Beyond  the  Father's  sight  ; 

That  care  and  trial  seem  at  last, 
Through  Memory's  sunset  air, 

Like  mountain-ranges  overpast, 
In  purple  distance  fair  ; 

That  all  the  jarring  notes  of  life 
Seem  blending  in  a  psalm, 

And  all  the  angles  of  its  strife 
Slow  rounding  into  calm. 

And  so  the  shadows  fall  apart, 
And  so  the  west-winds  play  ; 

And  all  the  windows  of  my  heart 
I  open  to  the  day. 


THE    WAITING 

I  WAIT  and  watch  :  before  my  eyes 

Methinks    the    night    grows    thin    and 
gray  ; 

I  wait  and  watch  the  eastern  skies 

To  see  the  golden  spears  uprise 
Beneath  the  oriflamme  of  day  ! 


Like  one  whose  limbs  are  bound  in  trance 

I  hear  the  day-sounds  swell  and  grow, 
And  see  across  the  twilight  glance, 
Troop  after  troop,  in  swift  advance, 
The  shining  ones  with  plumes  of  snow  ! 

I  know  the  errand  of  their  feet, 

1  know  what  mighty  work  is  theirs  ; 
I  can  but  lift  up  hands  unmeet 
The  threshing-floors  of  God  to  beat, 

And  speed  them  with  unworthy  prayers. 

I  will  not  dream  in  vain  despair 

The  steps  of  progress  wait  for  me  : 
The  puny  leverage  of  a  hair 
The  planet's  impulse  well  may  spare, 
A  drop  of  dew  the  tided  sea. 

The  loss,  if  loss  there  be,  is  mine, 

And  yet  not  mine  if  understood  ; 
For  one  shall  grasp  and  one  resign, 
One  drink  life's  rue,  and  one  its  wine, 
And  God  shall  make  the  balance  good. 

Oh  power  to  do  !     Oh  baffled  will  ! 

Oh  prayer  and  action  !  ye  are  one. 
Who  may  not  strive,  may  yet  fulfil 
The  harder  task  of  standing  still, 

And  good  but  wished  with  God  is  done  1 


SNOW-BOUND 

A  WINTER  IDYL 


TO   THE   MEMORY  OF   THE  HOUSEHOLD  IT  DESCRIBES 
THIS   POEM   IS   DEDICATED   BY  THE  AUTHOR 


The  inmates  of  the  family  at  the  Whittier 
homestead  who  are  referred  to  in  the  poem 
were  my  father,  mother,  my  brother  and  two 
sisters,  and  my  uncle  and  aunt,  both  unmarried. 
In  addition,  there  was  the  district  school  mas 
ter,  who  boarded  with  us.  The  "  not  unfeared, 
half -welcome  guest  "  was  Harriet  Livermore, 
daughter  of  Judge  Livermore,  of  New  Hamp 
shire,  a  young  woman  of  fine  natural  ability, 
enthusiastic,  eccentric,  with  slight  control  over 
her  violent  temper,  which  sometimes  made  her 
religions  prof ession  doubtful.  She  was  equally 
ready  to  exhort  in  school-house  prayer-meetings 
and  dance  in  a  Washington  ball-room,  while 
her  father  was  a  member  of  congress.  She 
early  embraced  the  doctrine  of  the  Second  Ad 


vent,  and  felt  it  her  duty  to  proclaim  the  Lord's 
speedy  coming.  With  this  message  she  crossed 
the  Atlantic  and  spent  the  greater  part  of  a 
long  life  in  travelling  over  Europe  and  Asia, 
She  lived  some  time  with  Lady  Hester  Stan 
hope,  a  woman  as  fantastic  and  mentally 
strained  as  herself,  on  the  slope  of  Mt.  Lebanon, 
but  finally  quarrelled  with  her  in  regard  to  two 
white  horses  with  red  marks  on  their  backs 
which  suggested  the  idea  of  saddles,  on  which 
her  titled  hostess  expected  to  ride  into  Jerusa 
lem  with  the  Lord.  A  friend  of  mine  found 
her,  when  quite  an  old  woman,  wandering  in 
Syria  with  a  tribe  of  Arabs,  who  with  the  Ori 
ental  notion  that  madness  is  inspiration,  ac 
cepted  her  as  their  prophetess  and  leader.  At 


SNOW-BOUND 


399 


the  time  referred  to  in  Snow-Bound  she  was 
boarding  at  the  Rocks  Village,  about  two  miles 
from  us. 

In  my  boyhood,  in  our  lonely  farm-house, 
we  had  scanty  sources  of  information ;  few 
books  and  only  a  small  weekly  newspaper. 
Our  only  annual  was  the  Almanac.  Under 
tsuch  circumstances  story-telling-  was  a  neces 
sary  resource  in  the  long'  winter  evenings. 
My  father  when  a  young  man  had  traversed 
the  wilderness  to  Canada,  and  could  tell  us  of 
his  adventures  with  Indians  and  wild  beasts, 
and  of  his  sojourn  in  the  French  villages.  My 
uncle  was  ready  with  his  record  of  hunting 
and  fishing  and,  it  must  be  confessed,  with 
stories  which  he  at  least  half  believed,  of  witch 
craft  and  apparitions.  My  mother,  who  was 
born  in  the  Indian-haunted  region  of  Somers- 
worth,  New  Hampshire,  between  Dover  and 
Portsmouth,  told  us  of  the  inroads  of  the  sav 
ages,  and  the  narrow  escape  of  her  ancestors. 
She  described  strange  people  who  lived  on  the 
Piscataqua  and  Cocheco,  among  whom  was 
Bantam  the  sorcerer.  I  have  in  my  possession 
the  wizard's  ''conjuring  book,"  which  ha  sol 
emnly  opened  when  consulted.  It  is  a  copy 
of  Cornelius  Agrippa's  Magic,  printed  in  1651, 
dedicated  to  Dr.  Robert  Child,  who,  like  Mi 
chael  Scott,  had  learned 

"  the  art  of  glammorie 
In  Padua  beyond  the  sea," 

and  who  is  famous  in  the  annals  of  Massachu 
setts,  where  he  was  at  one  time  a  resident,  as 
the  first  man  who  dared  petition  the  General 
Court  for  liberty  of  conscience.  The  full  title 
of  the  book  is  Three  Books  of  Occult  Philoso 
phy,  by  Henry  Cornelius  Agrippa,  Knight,  Doc 
tor  of  both  Laws,  Counsellor  to  Caesar's  Sacred 
Majesty  and  Judge  of  the  Prerogative  Court. 

"  As  the  Spirits  of  Darkness  be  stronger  in  the  dark, 
so  Good  Spirits,  which  be  Angels  of  Light,  are  aug 
mented  not  only  by  the  Divine  light  of  the  Sun,  but 
also  by  our  common  Wood  Fire  :  and  as  the  Celestial 
Fire  drives  away  dark  spirits,  so  also  this  our  Fire  of 
Wood  doth  the  same."  — COR.  AGRIPPA.  Occult  Phi 
losophy,  Book  I.  ch.  v. 

"  Announced  by  all  the  trumpets  of  the  sky, 
Arrives  the  snow,  and,  driving  o'er  the  fields, 
Seems  nowhere  to  alight :  the  whited  air 
Hides  hills  and  woods,  the  river  and  the  heaven, 
And  veils  the  farm-house  at  the  garden's  end. 
The  sled  and  traveller  stopped,  the  courier's  feet 
Delayed,  all  friends  shut  out,  the  housemates  sit 
Around  the  radiant  fireplace,  enclosed 
In  a  tumultuous  privacy  of  storm." 

EMERSON.     The  Snow  Storm. 

THE  sun  that  brief  December  day 
Rose  cheerless  over  hills  of  gray, 
And,  darkly  circled,  gave  at  noon 
A  sadder  light  than  waning  moon. 


Slow  tracing  down  the  thickening  sky 

Its  mute  and  ominous  prophecy, 

A  portent  seeming  less  than  threat, 

It  sank  from  sight  before  it  set. 

A  chill  no  coat,  however  stout, 

Of  homespun  stuff  could  quite  shut  out, 

A  hard,  dull  bitterness  of  cold, 

That  checked,  mid-vein,  the  circling  race 

Of  life-blood  in  the  sharpened  face, 

The  coming  of  the  snow-storm  told. 

The  wind  blew  east ;  we  heard  the  roar 

Of  Ocean  on  his  wintry  shore, 

And  felt  the  strong  pulse  throbbing  there 

Beat  with  low  rhythm  our  inland  air. 

Meanwhile  we  did  our  nightly  chores,  — 
Brought  in  the  wood  from  out  of  doors, 
Littered  the  stalls,  and  from  the  mows 
Raked  down  the  herd's-grass  for  the  cows; 
Heard  the  horse  whinnying  for  his  corn  ; 
And,  sharply  clashing  horn  on  horn, 
Impatient  down  the  stanchion  rows 
The  cattle  shake  their  walnut  bows  ; 
While,  peering  from  his  early  perch 
Upon  the  scaffold's  pole  of  birch, 
The  cock  his  crested  helmet  bent 
And  down  his  querulous  challenge  sent. 

Unwarmed  by  any  sunset  light 
The  gray  day  darkened  into  night, 
A  night  made  hoary  with  the  swarm 
And  whirl-dance  of  the  blinding  storm, 
As  zigzag,  wavering  to  and  fro, 
Crossed  and  recrossed  the  winged  snow  : 
And  ere  the  early  bedtime  came 
The  white  drift  piled  the  window-frame, 
And  through  the  glass  the  clothes-line  posts 
Looked  in  like  tall  and  sheeted  ghosts. 

So  all  night  long  the  storm  roared  on  : 
The  morning  broke  without  a  sun  ; 
In  tiny  spherule  traced  with  lines 
Of  Nature's  geometric  signs, 
In  starry  flake,  and  pellicle, 
All  day  the  hoary  meteor  fell  ; 
And,  when  the  second  morning  shone, 
We  looked  upon  a  world  unknown, 
On  nothing  we  could  call  our  own. 
Around  the  glistening  wonder  bent 
The  blue  walls  of  the  firmament, 
No  cloud  above,  no  earth  below,  — 
A  universe  of  sky  and  snow  ! 
The  old  familiar  sights  of  ours 
Took   marvellous  shapes  ;   strange    domes 
and  towers 


400 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND    REMINISCENT 


Rose  up  where  sty  or  corn-crib  stood, 

Or  garden- wall,  or  belt  of  wood  ; 

A    smooth    white    mound    the    brush  -  pile 

showed, 

A  fenceless  drift  what  once  was  road  ; 
The  bridle-post  an  old  man  sat 
With  loose-flung  coat  and  high  cocked  hat  ; 
The  well-curb  had  a  Chinese  roof  ; 
And  even  the  long  sweep,  high  aloof, 
In  its  slant  splendor,  seemed  to  tell 
Of  Pisa's  leaning  miracle. 

A  prompt,  decisive  man,  no  breath 
Our  father  wasted  :  "  Boys,  a  path  !  " 
Well  pleased,  (for  when  did  farmer  boy 
Count  such  a  summons  less  than  joy  ?) 
Our  buskins  on  our  feet  we  drew  ; 
'••  With  mittened  hands,  and  caps  drawn  low, 
To  guard  our  necks  and  ears  from  snow, 
We  cut  the  solid  whiteness  through. 
And,  where  the  drift  was  deepest,  made 
A  tunnel  walled  and  overlaid 
With  dazzling  crystal  :  we  had  read 
Of  rare  Aladdin's  wondrous  cave, 
And  to  our  own  his  name  we  gave, 
With  many  a  wish  the  luck  were  ours 
To  test  his  lamp's  supernal  powers. 
We  reached  the  barn  with  merry  din, 
And  roused  the  prisoned  brutes  within. 
The  old  horse  thrust  his  long  head  out, 
And  grave  with  wonder  gazed  about  ; 
The  cock  his  lusty  greeting  said, 
And  forth  his  speckled  harem  led  ; 
The  oxen  lashed  their  tails,  and  hooked> 
And  mild  reproach  of  hunger  looked  ; 
The  horned  patriarch  of  the  sheep, 
Like  Egypt's  Amun  roused  from  sleep, 
Shook  his  Gage  head  with  gesture  mute, 
And  emphasized  with  stamp  of  foot. 

All  day  the  gusty  north-wind  bore 
The  loosening  drift  its  breath  before  ; 
Lo.v  circling  round  its  southern  zone, 
The  sun  through  dazzling  snow-mist  shone. 
(No  church-bell  lent  its  Christian  tone 
ITo  the  savage  air,  no  social  smoke 
jCurled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 
'A  solitude  made  more  intense 
By  dreary-voiced  elements, 
The  shrieking  of  the  mindless  wind, 
The  moaning  tree-boughs  swaying  blind, 
And  on  the  glass  the  unmeaning  beat 
Of  ghostly  finger-tips  of  sleet. 
Beyond  the  circle  of  our  hearth 
No  welcome  sound  of  toil  or  mirth 


Unbound  the  spell,  and  testified 
Of  human  life  and  thought  outside. 
We  minded  that  the  sharpest  ear 
The  buried  brooklet  could  not  hear, 
The  music  of  whose  liquid  lip 
Had  been  to  us  companionship, 
And,  in  our  lonely  life,  had  grown 
To  have  an  almost  human  tone. 

As  night  drew  on,  and,  from  the  crest 
Of  wooded  knolls  that  ridged  the  west, 
The  sun,  a  snow-blown  traveller,  sank 
From  sight  beneath  the  smothering  bank, 
We  piled,  with  care,  our  nightly  stack 
Of  wood  against  the  chimney-back,  — 
The  oaken  log,  green,  huge,  and  thick, 
And  on  its  top  the  stout  back-stick; 
The  knotty  forestick  laid  apart, 
)  And  filled  between  with  curious  art 
The  ragged  brush  ;  then,  hovering  near, 
We  watched  the  first  red  blaze  appear, 
Heard  the  sharp  crackle,  caught  the  gleam 
On  whitewashed  wall  and  sagging  beam, 
Until  the  old,  rude-furnished  room 
Burst,  flower-like,  into-casv^bloom  ; 
While  radiant  with  a  mimic  flame 
Outside  the  sparkling  drift  became, 
And  through  the  bare-boughed  lilac-tree 
Our  own  warm  hearth  seemed  blazing  free. 
The  crane  and  pendent  trammels  showed, 
The  Turks'  heads  on  the  andirons  glowed; 
While  childish  fancy,  prompt  to  tell 
The  meaning  of  the  miracle, 
Whispered  the  old  rhyme  :  "  Under  the  free, 
^Vhen  Jire  outdoors  burns  merrily, 
\~here  the  witches  are  making  tea." 

The  moon  above  the  eastern  wood 
Shone  at  its  full  ;  the  hill-range  stood 
Transfigured  in  the  silver  flood, 
Its  blown  snows  flashing  cold  and  keen, 
Dead  white,  save  where  some  sharp  ravine 
Took  shadow,  or  the  sombre  green 
Of  hemlocks  turned  to  pitchy  black 
.  Against  the  whiteness  at  their  back. 
'For  such  a  world  and  such  a  night 
'.Most  fitting  that  un warming  light, 
iWhich  only  seemed  where'er  it  fell 
!To  make  the  coldness  visible. 

Shut  in  from  all  the  world  without, 
We  sat  the  clean-winged  hearth  about 
Content  to  let,  the  north-wind  roar 
In  baffled  rage  at  pane  and  door, 
While  the  red  logs  before  us  beat 


SNOW-BOUND 


401 


The  frost-line  back  with  tropic  heat  ; 
And  ever,  when  a  louder  blast 
Shook  beam  and  rafter  as  it  passed, 
The  merrier  up  its  roaring-  draught 
The  great  throat  of  the  chimney  laughed; 
The  house-dog  on  his  paws  outspread 
Laid  to  the  fire  his  drowsy  head, 
The  cat's  dark  silhouette  on  the  wall 
A  couchant  tiger's  seemed  to  fall  ; 
And,  for  the  winter  fireside  meet, 
[Between  the  andirons'  straddling  feet, 
'The  mug  of  cider  simmered  slow, 
The  apples  sputtered  in  a  row, 
|  And,  close  at  hand,  the  basket  stood 
With  nuts  from  brown  October's  wood. 

What  matter  how  the  night  behaved  ? 

What  matter  how  the  north-wind  raved  ? 

Blow  high,  blow  low,  not  all  its  snow 
yCould    quench     our     hearth -fire's     ruddy 

glow. 

|O  Time  and  Change  !  — with  hair  as  gray 
I  As  was  my  sire's  that  winter  day, 
yjHow  strange  it  seems,  with  so  much  gone 

Of  life  and  love,  to  still  live  on  ! 

Ah,  brother  !  only  I  and  thou 

Are  left  of  all  that  circle  now,  — 

The  dear  home  faces  whereupon 

That  fitful  firelight  paled  and  shone. 

Henceforward,  listen  as  we  will, 

The  voices  of  that  hearth  are  still  ; 

Look  where  we  may,  the  wide  earth  o'er, 

Those  lighted  faces  smile  no  more. 

We  tread  the  paths  their  feet  have  worn,  ) 
WTe  sit  beneath  their  orchard  trees,         / 

I    We  hear,  like  them,  the  hum  of  bees     j 

MLnd  rustle  of  the  bladed  corn  ; 

We  turn  the  pages  that  they  read, 

Their  written  words  we  linger  o'er,     / 

But  in  the  sun  they  cast  no  shade, 

No  voice  is  heard,  no  sign  is  made, 
No  step  is  on  the  conscious  floor  ! 

Yet    Love    will    dream,    and    Faith    will 
trust, 

(Since  He  who  knows  our  need  is  just,) 

That  somehow,  somewhere,  meet  we  must. 

Alas  for  him  who  never  sees 

The  stars  shine  through  his  cypress-trees  ! 

Who,  hopeless,  lays  his  dead  away, 

Nor  looks  to  see  the  breaking  day 

Across  the  mournful  marbles  play  ! 

\y\\o  hath  not  learned,  in  hours  of  faith, 
/  The  truth  to  flesh  and  sense  unknown, 

'(That  Life  is  ever  lord  of  Death, 
\  An:l  T,O"«»  oan  never  lose  its  own  ! 


We  sped  the  time  with  stories  old, 
Wrought  puzzles  out,  and  riddles  told, 
Or  stammered  from  our  school-book  lore 
"The  Chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore." 
How  often  since,  when  all  the  land 
Was  clay  in  Slavery's  shaping  hand, 
As  if  a  far-blown  trumpet  stirred 
The  languorous  sin-sick  air,  I  heard  : 
"  Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry, 

Claim  the  first  right  which  Nature  gave, 
From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly, 

Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave  !  " 
Our  father  rode  again  his  ride 
On  Memphremagog's  wooded  side  ; 
Sat  down  again  to  moose  and  samp 
lln  trapper's  hut  and  Indian  camp  ; 
ILived  o'er  the  old  idyllic  ease 
JBeneath  St.  Francois'  hemlock-trees  , 
Again  for  him  the  moonlight  shone 
On  Norman  cap  and  bodiced  zone  ; 
Again  he  heard  the  violin  play 
Which  led  the  village  dance  away,  [i-^ 
And  mingled  in  its  merry  whirl 
The  grandam  and  the  laughing  girl. 
Or,  nearer  home,  our  steps  he  led 
Where  Salisbury's  level  marshes  spread 

Mile-wide  as  flies  the  laden  bee  ; 
Where  merry  mowers,  hale  and  strong, 
Swept,  scythe  on  scythe,  their  swaths  along 

The  low  green  prairies  of  the  sea. 
We  shared  the  fishing  off  Boar's  Head, 

And  round  the  rocky  Isles  of  Shoals 

The  hake-broil  on  the  drift-wood  coals  ; 
The  chowder  on  the  sand-beach  made, 
Dipped  by  the  hungry,  steaming  hot, 
With  spoons  of  clam-shell  from  the  pot. 
We  heard  the  tales  of  witchcraft  old, 
And  dream  and  sign  and  marvel  told 
To  sleepy  listeners  as  they  lay 
Stretched  idly  on  the  salted  hay, 
Adrift  along  the  winding  shores, 
When  favoring  breezes  deigned  to  blow 
The  square  sail  of  the  gundelow 
And  idle  lay  the  useless  oars. 

l^ 

Our  mother,  while  she  turned  her  wheel 
Or  run  the  new-knit  stocking-heel, 
Told  how  the  Indian  hordes  came  down 
At  midnight  on  Cocheco  town, 
And  how  her  own  great-uncle  bore  /TV*/ 
His  cruel  scalp-mark  to  fourscore. 
Recalling,  in  her  fitting  phrase, 

So  rich  and  picturesque  and  free, 
!    (The  common  unrhymed  poetry 
/Of  simple  life  and  country  wa 


*-fit~4fd/u 
/-**  -^  -  6. 


402 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND    REMINISCENT 


The  story  of  her  early  days,  — 
She  made  us  welcome  to  her  home  ; 
Old  hearths  grew  wide  to  give  us  room  ; 
We  stole  with  her  a  frightened  look 
At  the  gray  wizard's  conjuriug-book, 
The  fame  whereof  went  far  and  wide 
Through  all  the  simple  country  side  ; 
We  heard  the  hawks  at  twilight  play, 
The  boat-horn  on  Piscataqua, 
The  loon's  weird  laughter  far  away  ; 
We  fished  her  little  trout-brook,  knew 
What  flowers  in  wood  and  meadow  grew, 
What  sunny  hillsides  autumn-brown 
She  climbed  to  shake  the  ripe  nuts  down, 
Saw  where  in  sheltered  cove  and  bay 
The  ducks'  black  squadron  anchored  lay, 
And  heard  the  wild-geese  calling  loud 
Beneath  the  gray  November  cloud. 

Then,  haply,  with  a  look  more  grave, 

And  soberer  tone,  some  tale  she  gave 

From  painful  Sewel's  ancient  tome, 

Beloved  in  every  Quaker  home, 

Of  faith  fire-winged  by  martyrdom, 

Or  Chalkley's  Journal,  old  and  quaint,  — 

Gentlest  of  skippers,  rare  sea-saint  !  — 

Who,  when  the  dreary  calms  prevailed, 

And  water-butt  and  bread-cask  failed, 

And  cruel,  hungry  eyes  pursued 

His  portly  presence  mad  for  food, 

With  dark  hints  muttered  under  breath 

Of  casting  lots  for  life  or  death, 

Offered,  if  Heaven  withheld  supplies, 

To  be  himself  the  sacrifice. 

Then,  suddenly,  as  if  to  save 

The  good  man  from  his  living  grave, 

A  ripple  on  the  water  grew, 

A  school  of  porpoise  flashed  in  view. 

'•'  Take,  eat,"  he  said,  "  and  be  content  ; 

These  fishes  in  my  stead  are  sent 

By  Him  who  gave  the  tangled  ram 

To  spare  the  child  of  Abraham." 


? 

\0 


Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books, 

Was  rich  in  lore  of  fields  and  brooks, 

he  ancient  teachers  never  dumb 
Of  Nature's  unhoused  lyceum. 
In  moons  and  tides  and  weather  wise, 
He  read  the  clouds  as  prophecies, 
And  foul  or  fair  could  well  divine, 
By  many  an  occult  hint  and  sign, 
Holding  the  cunning-warded  keys 
t  To  all  the  woodcraft  mysteries  ; 
Himself  to  Nature's  heart  so  near 
That  all  her  voices  in  his  ear 


Of  beast  or  bird  had  meanings  clear, 

Like  Apollonius  of  old, 

Who  knew  the  tales  the  sparrows  told, 

Or  Hermes,  who  interpreted 

What  the  sage  cranes  of  Nilus  said  ; 

A  simple,  guileless,  childlike  man, 

Content  to  live  where  life  began  ; 

Strong  only  on  his  native  grounds, 

The  little  world  of  sights  and  sounds 

Whose  girdle  was  the  parish  bounds, 

W^hereof  his  fondly  partial  pride 

The  common  features  magnified, 

As  Surrey  hills  to  mountains  grew 

In  White  of  Selborne's  loving  view,— 

He  told  how  teal  and  loon  he  shot, 

And  how  the  eagle's  eggs  he  got, 

The  feats  on  pond  and  river  done, 

The  prodigies  of  rod  and  gun  ; 

Till,  warming  with  the  tales  he  told, 

(Forgotten  was  the  outside  cold, 

The  bitter  wind  unheeded  blew, 

From  ripening  corn  the  pigeons  flew, 

The  partridge  drummed  i'  the  wood,  the 

mink 

Went  fishing  down  the  river-brink. 
In  fields  with  bean  or  clover  gay, 
The  woodchuck,  like  a  hermit  gra^, 

Peered  from  the  doorway  of  hn_  cell ; 
The  muskrat  plied  the  mason's  trade, 
And  tier  by  tier  his  mud-walls  laid  ; 
And  from  the  shagbark  overhead 

The  grizzled  squirrel  dropped  his  shell. 

Next,  the  dear  aunt,  whose  smile  of  cheer 
And  voice  in  dreams  I  see  and  hear,  — 
The  sweetest  woman  ever  Fate 
Perverse  denied  a  household  mate, 
Who,  lonely,  homeless,  not  the  less 
Found  peace  in  love's  unselfishness, 
And  welcome  wheresoe'er  she  went, 
A  calm  and  gracious  element, 
Whose  presence  seemed  the  sweet  income 
And  womanly  atmosphere  of  home,  — 
Called  up  her  girlhood  memories,       s 
The  huskings  and  the  apple-bees,  -"V 
The  sleigh-rides  and  the  summer  sails, 
Weaving  through  all  the  poor  details 

nd  homespun  warp  of  circumstance 
golden  woof-thread  of  romance. 

or  well  she  kept  her  genial  mood 
And  simple  faith  of  maidenhood  ; 

tefore  her  still  a  ^iQud^landJay. 
he  mirage  loomed  across  her  way  ; 
he  morning  dew,  that  dries  so  soon 
With  others,  glistened  at  her  noon  ; 


SNOW-BOUND 


403 


Through  years  of  toil  and  soil  and  care, 

From  glossy  tress  to  thin  gray  hair, 

All  unprofaned  she  held  apart 

The  virgin  fancies  of  the  heart. 

Be  shame  to  him  of  woman  born 

Who  hath  for  such  but  thought  of  scorn. 

There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied 
Her  evening  task  the  stand  beside  ; 
A  full,  rich  nature,  free  to  trust, 
Truthful  and  almost  sternly  just, 
Impulsive,  earnest,  prompt  to  act, 
And  make  her  generous  thought  a  fact, 
Keeping  with  many  a  light  disguise 
The  secret  of  self-sacrifice. 

0  heart  sore-tried  !  thou  hast  the  best 
That  Heaven  itself  could  give  thee,  —  rest, 

j  Rest  from  all  bitter  thoughts  and  things  ! 
How  many  a  poor  one's  blessing  went 
With  thee  beneath  the  low  green  tent 
Whose  curtain  never  outward  swings  ! 

As  one  who  held  herself  a  part 
Of  all  she  saw,  and  let  her  heart 

Against  the  household  bosom  lean, 
Upon  the  motley-braided  mat 
Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat, 
lifting  her  large,  sweet,  asking  eyes, 

Now  bathed  in  the  unfading  green 
bid  holy  peace  of  Paradise. 
,Jh,  looking  from  some  heavenly  hill, 
/  r    Or  from  the  shade  of  saintly  palms, 

Or  silver  reach  of  river  calms, 
\Do  those  large  eyes  behold  me  still  ? 
With  me  one  little  year  ago  :  — 
The  chill  weight  of  the  winter  snow 

For  months  upon  her  grave  has  lain  ; 
A.nd  now,  when  summer  south-winds  blow 

And  brier  and  harebell  bloom  again, 

1  tread  the  pleasant  paths  we  trod, 
I  see  the  violet-sprinkled  sod 
Whereon  she  leaned,  too  frail  and  weak 
The  hillside  flowers  she  loved  to  seek, 
Yet  following  me  where'er  I  went 
With  dark  eyes  full  of  love's  content. 
The  birds  are  glad  ;  the  brier-rose  fills 
The  air  with  sweetness  ;  all  the  hills 
Stretch  green  to  June's  unclouded  sky  ; 
But  still  I  wait  with  ear  and  eye 

For  something  gone  which  should  be  nigh, 
—A  loss  in  all  familiar  things, 
In  flower  that  blooms,  and  bird  that  sings. 
And  yet,  dear  heart  !  remembering  thee, 

Am  I  not  richer  than  of  old  ? 
Safe  in  thy  immortality, 


What  qhange   can  reach   the    wealth   I 
hold? 

What  chance  can  mar  the  pearl  and  gold 
Thy  love  hath  left  in  trust  with  me  ? 
And  while  in  life's  late  afternoon, 

Where  cool  and  long  the  shadows  grow, 
I  walk  to  meet  the  night  that  soon 

Shall  shape  and  shadow  overflow, 
I  cannot  feel  that  thou  art  far, 
Since  near  at  need  the  angels  are  ; 
And  when  the  sunset  gates  unbar, 

Shall  I  not  see  thee  waiting  stand, 
And,  white  against  the  evening  star, 

The  welcome  of  thy  beckoning  hand  ? 

Brisk  wielder  of  the  birch  and  rule, 

The  master  of  the  district  school 

Held  at  the  fire  his  favored  place, 

Its  warm  glow  lit  a  laughing  face 

Fresh-hued  and  fair,  where  scarce  appeared 

The  uncertain  prophecy  of  beard. 

He  teased  the  mitten-blinded  cat, 

Played  cross-pins  on  my  uncle's  hat, 

Sang  songs,  and  told  us  what  befalls 

In  classic  Dartmouth's  college  halls. 

Born  the  wild  Northern  hills  among, 

From  whence  his  yeoman  father  wrung 

By  patient  toil  subsistence  scant, 

Not  competence  and  yet  not  want, 

He  early  gained  the  power  to  pay  ^, •  / 

His  cheerful,  self-reliant  way  ;    - 

Could  doff  at  ease  his  scholar's  gown 

To  peddle  wares  from  town  to  town ; 

Or  through  the  long  vacation's  reach 

In  lonely  lowland  districts  teach, 

Where  all  the  droll  experience  found 

At  stranger  hearths  in  boarding  round, 

The  moonlit  skater's  keen  delight, 

The  sleigh-drive  through  the  frosty  night. 

The  rustic  party,  with  its  rough 

Accompaniment  of  blind-man's-buff, 

And  whirling-plate,  and  forfeits  paid, 

His  winter  task  a  pastime  made. 

Happy  the  snow-locked  homes  wherein 

He  tuned  his  merrv  violin, 

Or  played  the  athlete  in  the  barn, 

Or  held  the  good  dame's  winding-yarn, 

Or  mirth-provoking  versions  told 

Of  classic  legends  rare  and  old, 

Wherein  the  scenes  of  Greece  and  Rome 

Had  all  the  commonplace  of  home, 

And  little  seemed  at  best  the  odds 

'Twixt  Yankee  pedlers  and  old  gods  ; 

Where  Pindus-born  Arachthus  took 

The  guise  of  any  grist-mill  brook, 


404 


PX)EMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND   REMINISCENT 


And  dread  Olympus  at  his  will     . 
Became  a  huckleberry  hill. 

A  careless  boy  that  night  he  seemed  ; 

But  at  his  desk  he  had  the  look 
And  air  of  one  who  wisely  schemed, 
And  hostage  from  the  future  took 
In  trained  thought  and  lore  of  book. 
Large-brained,  cle Mr-eyed,  of  such  as  he 
Shall  Freedom's  young  apostles  be, 
Who,  following  in  War's  bloody  trail, 
Shall  every  lingering  wrong  assail  ; 
All  chains  from  limb  and  spirit  strike, 
Uplift  the  black  and  white  alike  ; 
Scatter  before  their  swift  advance 
The  darkness  and  the  ignorance, 
The  pride,  the  lust,  the  squalid  sloth, 
Which      nurtured     Treason's      monstrous 

growth, 

Made  murder  pastime,  and  the  hell 
Of  prison-torture  possible  ; 
The  cruel  lie  of  caste  refute, 
Old  forms  remould,  and  substitute 
For  Slavery's  lash  the  freeman's  will, 
For  blind. routine,  wise-handed  skill  ; 
A  school-house  plant  on  every  hill, 
Stretching  in  radiate  nerve-lines  thence 
The  quick  wires  of  intelligence  ; 
Till  North  and  South  together  brought 
Shall  own  the  same  electric  thought, 
In  peace  a  common  flag  salute, 
And,  side  by  side  in  labor's  free 
And  unresentful  rivalry, 
Harvest  the  fields  wherein  they  fought. 

Another  guest  that  winter  night 

Flashed  back  from  lustrous  eyes  the  light. 

Unmarked  by  time,  and  yet  not  young, 

The  honeyed  music  of  her  tongue 

And  words  of  meekness  scarcely  told 

A  nature  passionate  and  bold, 

Strong,  self-concentred,  spurning  guide, 

Its  milder  features  dwarfed  beside 

Her  unbent  will's  majestic  pride. 

She  sat  among  us,  at  the  6est, 

A  not  unf eared,  half-welcome  guest, 

Rebuking  with  her  cultured  phrase 

Our  homeliness  of  words  and  ways. 

A  certain  pard-like,  treacherous  grace 

Swayed   the   lithe   limbs  and  drooped  the 

lash, 

Lent  the  white  teeth  their  dazzling  flash; 
And  under  low  brows,  black  with  night, 
Rayed  out  at  times  a  dangerous  light; 
The  sharp  heat-lightnings  of  her  face 


Presaging  ill  to  him  whom  Fate 
Condemned  to  share  her  love  or  hate. 
A  woman  tropical,  intense 
In  thought  and  act,  in  soul  and  sense, 
She  blended  in  a  like  degree 
The  vixen  and  the  devotee, 
Revealing  with  each  freak  or  feint 
The  temper  of  Petruchio's  Kate, 
The  raptures  of  Siena's  saint. 
Her  tapering  hand  and  rounded  wrist 
Had  facile  power  to  form  a  fist  ; 
The  warm,  dark  languish  of  her  eyes 
Was  never  safe  from  wrath's  surprise. 
Brows  saintly  calm  and  lips  devout 
Knew  every  change  of  scowl  and  pout ; 
And  the  sweet  voice  had  notes  more  high 
And  shrill  for  social  battle-cry. 

Since  then  what  old  cathedral  town 
Has  missed  her  pilgrim  staff  and  gown, 
What  convent-gate  has  held  its  lock 
Against  the  challenge  of  her  knock  ! 
Through  Smyrna's  plague-hushed  thorough 

fares, 

Up  sea-set  Malta's  rocky  stairs, 
Gray  olive  slopes  of  hills  that  hem 
Thy  tombs  and  shrines,  Jerusalem, 
Or  startling  on  her  desert  throne 
The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon 
With  claims  fantastic  as  her  own, 
Her  tireless  feet  have  held  their  way  ; 
And  still,  unrestful,  bowed,  and  gray, 
She  watches  under  Eastern  skies, 

With  hope  each  day  renewed  and  fresh, 
The  Lord's  quick  coming  in  the  flesh. 
Whereof  she  dreams  and  prophesies  ! 

Where'er  her  troubled  path  may  be, 
The  Lord's  sweet  pity  with  her  go  ! 

The  outward  wayward  life  we  see, 

The  hidden  springs  we  may  not  know. 

Nor  is  it  given  us  to  discern 

What  threads  the  fatal  sisters  spun, 
Through  what  ancestral  years  has  run 

The  sorrow  with  the  woman  born, 

What  forged  her  cruel  chain  of  moods, 

What  set  her  feet  in  solitudes, 

And  held  the  love  within  her  mute, 

What  mingled  madness  in  the  blood, 
A  life-long  discord  and  annoy, 
Water  of  tears  with  oil  of  joy, 

And  hid  within  the  folded  bud 
Perversities  of  flower  and  fruit. 

It  is  not  ours  to  separate 

The  tangled  skein  of  will  and  fate, 


SNOW-BOUND 


405 


To  show  what  metes   and   bounds   should 

stand 

Upon  the  soul's  debatable  land, 
And  between  choice  and  Providence 
Divide  the  circle  of  events  ; 
But  He  who  knows  our  frame  is  just, 
Merciful  and  compassionate, 
And  full  of  sweet  assurances 
And  hope  for  all  the  language  is, 
That  He  remembereth  we  are  dust  ! 

At  last  the  great  logs,  crumbling  low, 
Sent  out  a  dull  and  duller  glow, 
The  bull's-eye  watch  that  hung  in  view, 
Ticking  its  weary  circuit  through, 
Pointed  with  mutely  warning  sign 
Its  black  hand  to  the  hour  of  nine. 
That  sign  the  pleasant  circle  broke  : 
My  uncle  ceased  his  pipe  to  smoke, 
Knocked  from  its  bowl  the  refuse  gray, 
And  laid  it  tenderly  away; 
Then  roused  himself  to  safely  cover 
The  dull  red  brands  with  ashes  over. 
And  while,  with  care,  our  mother  laid 
The  work  aside,  her  steps  she  stayed 
One  moment,  seeking  to  express 
Her  grateful  sense  of  happiness 
For  food  and  shelter,  warmth  and  health, 
And  love's  contentment  more  than  wealth, 
With  simple  wishes  (not  the  weak, 
Vain  prayers  which  no  fulfilment  seek, 
But  such  as  warm  the  generous  heart, 
O'er-prompt  to  do  with  Heaven  its  part) 
That  none  might  lack,  that  bitter  night, 
For  bread  and  clothing,  warmth  and  light. 

Within  our  beds  awhile  we  heard 
The  wind  that  round  the  gables  roared, 
With  now  and  then  a  ruder  shock, 
Which  made  our  very  bedsteads  rock. 
We  heard  the  loosened  clapboards  tost, 
The  board-nails  snapping  in  the  frost ; 
And  on  us,  through  the  unplastered  wall, 
Felt  the  light  sifted  snow-Hakes  fall. 
But  sleep  stole  on,  as  sleep  will  do 
When  hearts  are  light  and  life  is  new  ; 

§aint  and  more  faint  the  murmurs  grew, 
ill  in  the  summer-land  of  dreams 
,    hey  softened  to  the  sound  of  streams, 
Low  stir  of  leaves,  and  dip  of  oars, 
And  lapsing  waves  on  quiet  shores. 

Next  morn  we  wakened  with  the  shout 
Of  merry  voices  high  and  clear  ; 


And  saw  the  teamsters  drawing  near 
To  break  the  drifted  highways  out. 
Down  the  long  hillside  treading  slow 
We  saw  the  half-buried  oxen  go, 
Shaking  the  snow  from  heads  uptost, 
Their  straining  nostrils  white  with  frost. 
Before  our  door  the  straggling  train 
Drew  up,  an  added  team  to  gain. 
The  elders  threshed  their  hands  a-cold, 
Passed,  with  the  cider-mug,  their  jokes 
From  lip  to  lip  ;  the  younger  folks 
Down    the    loose    snow-banks,  wrestling, 

rolled, 
Then  toiled  again  the  cavalcade 

O'er  windy  hill,  through  clogged  ravine, 
And  woodland  paths  that  wound  between 
Low  drooping  pine-boughs  winter-weighed. 
From  every  barn  a  team  afoot, 
At  every  house  a  new  recruit, 
Where,  drawn  by  Nature's  subtlest  law, 
Haply  the  watchful  young  men  saw 
Sweet  doorway  pictures  of  the  curls 
And  curious  eyes  of  merry  girls, 
Lifting  their  hands  in  mock  defence 
Against  the  snow-ball's  compliments, 
And  reading  in  eacli  missive  tost 
The  charm  with  Eden  never  lost. 

We  heard  once  more  the  sleigh-bells'  sound  ; 

And,  following  where  the  teamsters  led, 
The  wise  old  Doctor  went  his  round, 
Just  pausing  at  our  door  to  say, 
In  the  brief  autocratic  way 
Of  one  who,  prompt  at  Duty's  call, 
Was  free  to  urge  her  claim  on  all, 

That  some  poor  neighbor  sick  abed 
At  night  our  mother's  aid  would  need. 
For,  one  in  generous  thought  and  deed, 

What  mattered  in  the  sufferer's  sight 

The  Quaker  matron's  inward  light, 
The  Doctor's  mail  of  Calvin's  creed  ? 
All  hearts  confess  the  saints  elect 

Who,  twain  in  faith,  in  love  agree, 
And  melt  not  in  an  acid  sect 

The  Christian  pearl  of  charity  ! 

So  days  went  on  :  a  week  had  passed 
Since    the    great   world    was    heard  from 

last. 

The  Almanac  we  studied  o'er, 
Read  and  reread  our  little  store 
Of  books  and  pamphlets,  scarce  a  score  ; 
One  harmless  novel,  mostly  hid 
From  younger  eyes,  a  book  forbid, 


4-o6 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND   REMINISCENT 


And  poetry,  (or  good  or  bad, 

A  single  book  was  all  we  had,) 

Where  Ell  wood's  meek,  drab-skirted  Muse, 

A  stranger  to  the  heathen  JS'ine, 

Sang,  with  a  somewhat  nasal  whine, 
The  wars  of  David  and  the  Jews. 
At  last  the  floundering  carrier  bore 
The  village  paper  to  our  door. 
Lo  !  broadening  outward  as  we  read, 
To  warmer  zones  the  horizon  spread 
In  panoramic  length  unrolled 
We  saw  the  marvels  that  it  told. 
Before  us  passed  the  painted  Creeks, 

And  daft  McGregor  on  his  raids 

In  Costa  Rica's  everglades. 
And  up  Taygetos  winding  slow 
Rode  Ypsilanti's  Mainote  Greeks, 
A  Turk's  head  at  each  saddle-bow  ! 
Welcome  to  us  its  week-old  news, 
Its  corner  for  the  rustic  Muse, 

Its  monthly  gauge  of  snow  and  rain, 
Its  record,  mingling  in  a  breath 
The  wedding  bell  and  dirge  of  death  : 
Jest,  anecdote,  and  love-lorn  tale, 
The  latest  culprit  sent  to  jail  ; 
Its  hue  and  cry  of  stolen  and  lost, 
Its  vendue  sales  and  goods  at  cost, 

And  traffic  calling  loud  for  gain. 
We  felt  the  stir  of  hall  and  street, 
The  pulse  of  life  that  round  us  beat  ; 
The  chill  embargo  of  the  snow 
Was  melted  in  the  genial  glow  ; 
Wide  swung  again  our  ice-locked  door, 
And  all  the  world  was  ours  once  more  ! 

Clasp,  Angel  of  the  backward  look 

And  folded  wings  of  ashen  gray 

And  voice  of  echoes  far  away, 
The  brazen  covers  of  thy  book  ; 
The  weird  palimpsest  old  and  vast, 
Wherein  thou  hid'st  the  spectral  past  ; 
Where,  closely  mingling,  pale  and  glow 
The  characters  of  joy  and  woe  ; 
The  monographs  of  outlived  years, 
Or  smile-illumed  or  dim  with  tears, 

Green  hills  of  life  that  slope  to  death, 
And  haunts  of  home,  whose  vistaed  trees 
Shade  off  to  mournful  cypresses 

With  the  white  amaranths  underneath. 
Even  while  I  look,  I  can  but  heed 

The  restless  sands'  incessant  fall, 
Importunate  hours  that  hours  succeed, 
Each  clamorous  with  its  own  sharp  need, 

And  duty  keeping  pace  with  all. 
Shut  down  and  clasp  the  heavy  lids  ; 


I  hear  again  the  voice  that  bids 
The  dreamer  leave  his  dream  midway 
For  larger  hopes  and  graver  fears  : 
Life  greatens  in  these  later  years, 
The  century's  aloe  flowers  to-day  ! 

Yet,  haply,  in  some  lull  of  life, 

Some  Truce  of  God  which  breaks  its  strife, 

The  worldling's  eyes  shall  gather  dew, 

Dreaming  in  throngful  city  ways 
Of  winter  joys  his  boyhood  knew  ; 
And  dear  and  early  friends  —  the  few 
WTho  yet  remain  —  shall  pause  to  view 
^  These  Flemish  pictures  of  old  days  ; 
Sit  with  me  by  the  homestead  hearth, 
And  stretch  the  hands  of  memory  forth 

To  warm  them  at  the  wood-fire's  blaze  ! 
And  thanks  untraced  to  lips  unknown 
Shall  greet  me  like  the  odors  blown 
From  unseen  meadows  newly  mown, 
Or  lilies  floating  in  some  pond, 
Wood-fringed,  the  wayside  gaze  beyond  ; 
The  traveller  owns  the  grateful  sense 
Of  sweetness  near,  he  knows  not  whence, 
And,  pausing,  takes  with  forehead  bare 
The  benediction  of  the  air. 


MY    TRIUMPH 

THE  autumn-time  has  come  ; 
On  woods  that  dream  of  bloom, 
And  over  purpling  vines, 
The  low  sun  fainter  shines. 

The  aster-flower  is  failing, 
The  hazel's  gold  is  paling  ; 
Yet  overhead  more  near 
The  eternal  stars  appear  ! 

And  present  gratitude 
Insures  the  future's  good, 
And  for  the  things  I  see 
I  trust  the  things  to  be  ; 

That  in  the  paths  untrod, 
And  the  long  days  of  God, 
My  feet  shall  still  be  led, 
My  heart  be  comforted. 

O  living  friends  who  love  me 

0  dear  ones  gone  above  me  ! 
Careless  of  other  fame, 

1  leave  to  you  my  name. 


IN    SCHOOL-DAYS 


407 


Hide  it  from  idle  praises, 

Save  it  from  evil  phrases  : 

Why,  when  dear  lips  that  spake  it 

Are  dumb,  should  strangers  wake  it  ? 

Let  the  thick  curtain  fall  ; 
I  better  know  than  all 
How  little  I  have  gained, 
How  vast  the  unattained. 

Not  by  the  page  word-painted 
Let  life  be  banned  or  sainted  : 
Deeper  than  written  scroll 
The  colors  of  the  soul. 

Sweeter  than  any  sung 

My  songs  that  found  no  tongue  5 

Nobler  than  any  fact 

My  wish  that  failed  of  act. 

Others  shall  sing  the  song, 
Others  shall  right  the  wrong,  — 
Finish  what  1  begin, 
And  all  I  fail  of  win. 

What  matter,  I  or  they  ? 
Mine  or  another's  day, 
So  the  right  word  be  said 
And  life  the  sweeter  made  ? 

Hail  to  the  coming  singers  ! 
Hail  to  the  brave  light-bringers  ! 
Forward  I  reach  and  share 
All  that  they  sing  and  dare. 

The  airs  of  heaven  blow  o'er  me  j 
A  glory  shines  before  me 
Of  what  mankind  shall  be,  — 
Pure,  generous,  brave,  and  free. 

A  dream  of  man  and  woman 
Diviner  but  still  human, 
Solving  the  riddle  old, 
Shaping  the  Age  of  Gold  ! 

The  love  of  God  and  neighbor  ; 
An  equal-handed  labor  ; 
The  richer  life,  where  beauty 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  duty. 

Ring,  bells  in  unreared  steeples, 
The  joy  of  unborn  peoples  ! 
Sound,  trumpets  far  off  blown, 
Your  triumph  is  my  own  ! 


Parcel  and  part  of  all, 
I  keep  the  festival, 
Fore-reach  the  good  to  be, 
And  share  the  victory, 

I  feel  the  earth  move  sunward, 
I  join  the  great  march  onward, 
And  take,  by  faith,  while  living., 
My  freehold  of  thanksgiving. 

IN    SCHOOL-DAYS 

STILL  sits  the  school-house  by  the 
A  ragged  beggar  sleeping  ; 

Around  it  still  the  sumachs  grow, 
And  blackberry-vines  are  creepingo 

Within,  the  master's  desk  is  seen, 
Deep  scarred  by  raps  official  ; 

The  warping  floor,  the  battered  seats, 
The  jack-knife's  carved  initial  ; 

The  charcoal  frescos  on  its  wall  ; 

Its  door's  worn  sill,  betraying 
The  feet  that,  creeping  slow  to  school, 

Went  storming  out  to  playing  ! 

Long  years  ago  a  winter  sun 

Shone  over  it  at  setting  ; 
Lit  up  its  western  window-panes, 

And  low  eaves'  icy  fretting. 

It  touched  the  tangled  golden  curls, 
And  brown  eyes  full  of  grieving, 

Of  one  who  still  her  steps  delayed 
When  all  the  school  were  leaving. 

For  near  her  stood  the  little  boy 
Her  childish  favor  singled  : 

His  cap  pulled  low  upon  a  face 

Where  pride  and  shame  were  mingled 

Pushing  with  restless  feet  the  snow 
To  right  and  left,  he  lingered  ;  — 

As  restlessly  her  tiny  hands 

The  blue-checked  apron  fingered, 

He  saw  her  lift  her  eyes  ;  he  felt 
The  soft  hand's  light  caressing, 

And  heard  the  tremble  of  her  voice, 
As  if  a  fault  confessing. 

"  I  *m  sorry  that  I  spelt  the  word  t 
I  hate  to  go  above  you, 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND    REMINISCENT 


Because,"  —  the  brown  eyes  lower  fel!5 
*'  Because,  you  see,  I  love  you  !  " 

Still  memory  to  a  gray-haired  man 
That  sweet  child-face  is  showing. 

Dear  girl  I  the  grasses  on  her  grave 
Have  forty  years  been  growing  ! 

He  lives  to  learn,  in  life's  hard  school. 

How  few  who  pass  above  him 
Lament  their  triumph  and  his  loss, 

Like  her,  —  because  they  love  him. 


MY    BIRTHDAY 

BENEATH  the  moonlight  and  the  sncvr 

Lies  dead  my  latest  year  ; 
The  winter  winds  are  wailing  low 

Its  dirges  in  my  ear. 

I  grieve  not  with  the  moaning  wind 

As  if  a  loss  befell  ; 
Before  me,  even  as  behind, 

God  is,  and  all  is  well  ! 

His  light  shines  on  me  from  above, 
His  low  voice  speaks  within,  — 

The  patience  of  immortal  love 
Outwearying  mortal  sin. 

Not  mindless  of  the  growing  years 

Of  care  and  loss  and  pain, 
My  eyes  are  wet  with  thankful  tears 

For  blessings  which  remain, 

if  dim  the  gold  of  life  has  grown, 

I  will  not  count  it  dross, 
Nor  turn  from  treasures  still  my  own 

Tc  sigh  for  lack  and  loss. 

The  years  no  charm  from  Nature  take  ; 

As  sweet  her  voices  call, 
As  beautiful  her  mornings  break, 

As  fair  her  evenings  fall. 

Love  watches  o'er  my  quiet  ways, 
Kind  voices  speak  my  name, 

And  lips  that  find  it  hard  to  praise 
Are  slow,  at  least,  to  blame. 

How  softly  ebb  the  tides  of  will  ! 

How  fields,  once  lost  or  won, 
Now  lie  behind  me  green  and  still 

Beneath  a  level  sun  ! 


How  hushed  the  hiss  of  party  hate, 

The  clamor  of  the  throng  ! 
How  old,  harsh  voices  of  debate 

Flow  into  rhythmic  song  ! 

Methinks  the  spirit's  temper  grows 

Too  soft  in  this  still  air  ; 
Somewhat  the  restful  heart  foregoes 

Of  needed  watch  and  prayer. 

The  bark  by  tempest  vainly  tossed 

May  founder  in  the  calm, 
And  he  who  braved  the  polar  frost 

Faint  by  the  isles  of  balm. 

Better  than  self-indulgent  years 

The  outflung  heart  of  youth, 
Than  pleasant  songs  in  idle  ears 

The  tumult  of  the  truth. 

Rest  for  the  weary  hands  is  good, 
And  love  for  hearts  that  pine, 

But  let  the  manly  habitude 
Of  upright  souls  be  mine. 

Let  winds  that  blow  from  heaven  refresh 

Dear  Lord,  the  languid  air  ; 
And  let  the  weakness  of  the  flesh 

Thy  strength  of  spirit  share. 

And,  if  the  eye  must  fail  of  light, 

The  ear  forget  to  hear, 
Make  clearer  still  the  spirit's  sight, 

More  fine  the  inward  ear  ! 

Be  near  me  in  mine  hours  of  need 
To  soothe,  or  cheer,  or  warn, 

And  down  these  slopes  of  sunset  lead 
As  up  the  hills  of  morn  ! 


RED    RIDING-HOOD 

ON  the  wide  lawn  the  snow  lay  deep, 
Ridged  o'er  with  many  a  drifted  heap  ; 
The  wind  that  through  the  pine-trees  sung 
The  naked  elm-boughs  tossed  and  swung  ; 
While,  through  the  window,  frosty-starred 
Against  the  sunset  purple  barred, 
We  saw  the  sombre  crow  flap  by, 
The  hawk's  gray  fleck  along  the  sky, 
The  crested  blue-jay  flitting  swift, 
The  squirrel  poising  on  the  drift, 
Erect,  alert,  his  broad  gray  tail 
Set  to  the  north  wind  like  a  sail. 


AT   EVENTIDE 


409 


ft  came  to  pass,  our  little  lass, 

With  flattened  face  against  the  glass, 

And  eyes  in  which  the  tender  dew 

Of  pity  shone,  stood  gazing  through 

The  narrow  space  her  rosy  lips 

Had  melted  from  the  frost's  eclipse  : 

"  Oh,  see,"  she  cried,  "  the  poor  blue-jays  ! 

What  is  it  that  the  black  crow  says  ? 

The  squirrel  lifts  his  little  legs 

Because  he  has  no  hands,  and  begs; 

He  's  asking  for  my  nuts,  I  know  : 

May  I  not  feed  them  on  the  snow  ?  " 

Half  lost  within  her  boots,  her  head 
Warm-sheltered  in  her  hood  of  red, 
Her  plaid  skirt  close  about  her  drawn, 
She  floundered  down  the  wintry  lawn  ; 
Now  struggling  through  the  misty  veil 
Blown  round  her  by  the  shrieking  gale  ; 
Now  sinking  in  a  drift  so  low 
Her  scarlet  hood  could  scarcely  show 
Its  dash  of  color  on  the  snow. 

She  dropped  for  bird  and  beast  forlorn 

Her  little  store  of  nuts  and  corn, 

And  thus  her  timid  guests  bespoke  : 

"  Come,  squirrel,  from  your  hollow  oak, — 

Come,  black  old  crow,  —  come,  poor  blue- 

JaJ> 

Before  your  supper  's  blown  away  ! 
Don't  be  afraid,  we  all  are  good  ; 
And  I  'm  mamma's  Red  Riding-Hood  !  " 

O  Thou  whose  care  is  over  all, 
Who  heedest  even  the  sparrow's  fall, 
Keep  in  the  little  maiden's  breast 
The  pity  which  is  now  its  guest  ! 
Let  not  her  cultured  years  make  less 
The  childhood  charm  of  tenderness, 
But  let  her  feel  as  well  as  know, 
Nor  harder  with  her  polish  grow  ! 
Unmoved  by  sentimental  grief 
That  wails  along  some  printed  leaf, 
But  prompt  with  kindly  word  and  deed 
To  own  the  claims  of  all  who  need, 
Let  the  grown  woman's  self  make  good 
The  promise  of  Red  Riding-Hood  ! 


RESPONSE 

On  the  occasion  of  my  seventieth  birthday,  in 
1877,  I  was  the  recipient  of  many  tokens  of 
esteem.  The  publishers  of  the  Atlantic  Monthly 
gave  a  dinner  in  my  name  and  the  editor  of 


The  Literary  World  gathered  in  his  paper  many 
affectionate  messages  from  my  associates  in 
literature  and  the  cause  of  human  progress. 
The  lines  which  follow  were  written  in  acknow 
ledgment. 

BESIDE  that  milestone  where  the  level  sun, 
Nigh  unto  setting,  sheds    his    last,  low 

rays 

On  word  and  work  irrevocably  done, 
Life's  blending  threads  of  good  and  ill  out- 
spun, 
I  hear,  O  friends  !  your  words  of  cheer 

and  praise, 

Half  doubtful  if  myself  or  otherwise. 
Like  him  who,  in  the  old  Arabian  joke, 
A    beggar    slept    and    crowned    Caliph 

woke. 
Thanks   not   the   less.     With   not   unglad 

surprise 
I  see   my  life-work  through  your  partial 

eyes; 
Assured,   in   giving   to    my  home -taught 

songs 

A  higher  value  than  of  right  belongs, 
You  do  but  read  between  the  written  lines 
The  finer  grace  of  unfulfilled  designs. 


AT   EVENTIDE 

POOR  and  inadequate  the  shadow-play 
Of    gain    and   loss,   of   waking   and   of 

dream, 
Against  life's  solemn  background  needs 

must  seem 

At  this  late  hour.     Yet,  not  unthankfully, 
I  call  to  mind  the  fountains  by  the  way, 
The  breath  of  flowers,  the  bird-song  on  the 

spray, 
Dear  friends,  sweet  human  loves,  the  joy  of 

giving 

And  of  receiving,  the  great  boon  of  liv 
ing 

In  grand  historic  years  when  Liberty 
Had  need  of  word  and  work,  quick  sympa 
thies 

For  all  who  fail  and  suffer,  song's  relief, 
Nature's  uncloying  loveliness  ;  and  chief, 
The  kind  restraining  hand  of  Providence, 
The  inward  witness,  the  assuring  sense 
Of  an  Eternal  Good  which  overlies 
The  sorrow  of  the  world,  Love  which  out 
lives 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE   AND    REMINISCENT 


All  sin  and  wrong,  Compassion  which  for 
gives 

To  the  uttermost,  and  Justice  whose  clear 
eyes 

Through  lapse  and  failure  look  to  the  in 
tent, 

And  judge  our  frailty  by  the  life  we  meant. 


VOYAGE  OF   THE  JETTIE 

The  picturesquely  situated  Wayside  Inn  at 
West  Ossipee,  N.  H.,  is  now  in  ashes;  and  to 
its  former  g'uests  these  somewhat  careless 
rhymes  may  be  a  not  unwelcome  reminder  of 
pleasant  summers  and  autumns  on  the  banks 
of  the  Bearcamp  and  Chocorua.  To  the  author 
himself  they  have  a  special  interest  from  the 
fact  that  they  were  written,  or  improvised, 
under  the  eye  and  for  the  amusement  of  a  be 
loved  invalid  friend,  whose  last  earthly  sunsets 
faded  from  the  mountain  rang'es  of  Ossipee 
and  Sandwich. 

A  SHALLOW  stream,  from  fountains 
Deep  in  the  Sandwich  mountains, 

Ran  lakeward  Bearcamp  River  ; 
And  between  its  flood-torn  shores, 
Sped  by  sail  or  urged  by  oars, 

No  keel  had  vexed  it  ever. 

Alone  the  dead  trees  yielding 
To  the  dull  axe  Time  is  wielding, 

The  shy  mink  and  the  otter, 
And  golden  leaves  and  red, 
By  countless  autumns  shed, 

Had  floated  down  it?,  water. 

From  the  gray  rocks  of  Cape  Ann, 
Came  a  skilled  seafaring  man, 

With  his  dory,  to  the  right  place  ; 
Over  lull  and  plain  he  brought  her, 
Where  the  boatless  Bearcamp  water 

Comes  winding  down  from  White-Face. 

Quoth  the  skipper  :  "  Ere  she  floats  forth, 
I  'm  sure  my  pretty  boat 's  worth, 

At  least,  a  name  as  pretty." 
On  her  painted  side  he  wrote  it, 
And  the  flag  that  o'er  her  floated 

Bore  aloft  the  name  of  Jettie. 

On  a  radiant  morn  of  summer, 
Elder  guest  and  latest  comer 

Saw  her  wed  the  Bearcamp  water  ; 
Heard  the  name  tue  skipper  gave  her, 


And  the  answer  to  the  favor 

From  the  Bay  State's  graceful  daughter 

Then  a  singer,  richly  gifted, 
Her  charmed  voice  uplifted  ; 

And  the  wood-thrush  and  song-sparrow 
Listened,  dumb  with  envious  pain, 
To  the  clear  and  sweet  refrain 

Whose  notes  they  could  not  borrow. 

Then  the  skipper  plied  his  oar, 
And  from  off  the  shelving  shore, 

Glided  out  the  strange  explorer ; 
Floating  on,  she  knew  not  whither,  — - 
The  tawny  sands  beneath  her, 

The  great  hills  watching  o'er  her. 

On,  where  the  stream  flows  quiet 
As  the  meadows'  margins  by  it, 

Or  widens  out  to  borrow  a 
New  life  from  that  wild  water, 
The  mountain  giant's  daughter, 

The  pine-besung  Chocorua. 

Or,  mid  the  tangling  cumber 
And  pack  of  mountain  lumber 

That  spring  floods  downward  force, 
Over  sunken  snag,  and  bar 
Where  the  grating  shallows  are, 

The  good  boat  held  her  course. 

Under  the  pine-dark  highlands, 
Around  the  vine-hung  islands, 

She  ploughed  her  crooked  furrow  ; 
And  her  rippling  and  her  lurches 
Scared  the  river  eels  and  perches, 

And  the  musk-rat  in  his  burrow. 

Every  sober  clam  below  her, 
Every  sage  and  grave  pearl-grower, 

Shut  his  rusty  valves  the  tighter ; 
Crow  called  to  crow  complaining, 
And  old  tortoises  sat  craning 

Their  leathern  necks  to  sight  her. 

So,  to  where  the  still  lake  glasses 
The  misty  mountain  masses 

Rising  dim  and  distant  northward, 
And,  with  faint-drawn  shadow  pictures, 
Low  shores,  and  dead  pine  spectres, 

Blends  the  skyward  and  the  earthwardc 

On  she  glided,  overladen, 
With  merry  man  and  maiden 

Sending  back  theii  song  and  laughter,— 


MY   TRUST 


411 


While,  perchance,  a  phantom  crew, 
In  a  ghostly  birch  canoe, 

Paddled  dumb  and  swiftly  after  ! 

And  the  bear  on  Ossipee 
Climbed  the  topmost  crag  to  see 

The  strange  tiling  drifting  under  ; 
And,  through  the  haze  of  August, 
Passaconaway  and  Paugus 

Looked  down  in  sleepy  wonder. 

All  the  pines  that  o'er  her  hung 
In  mimic  sea-tones  sung 

The  song  familiar  to  her  ; 
And  the  maples  leaned  to  screen  her, 
And  the  meadow-grass  seemed  greener, 

And  the  breeze  more  soft  to  woo  her. 

The  lone  stream  mystery-haunted 
To  her  the  freedom  granted 

To  scan  its  every  feature, 
Till  new  and  old  were  blended, 
And  round  them  both  extended 

The  loving  arms  of  Nature. 

Of  these  hills  the  little  vessel 
Henceforth  is  part  and  parcel  ; 

And  on  Bearcamp  shall  her  log 
Be  kept,  as  if  by  Georges 
O1*  Grand  Menan  the  surges 

Tossed  her  skipper  through  the  fog. 

And  I,  who,  half  in  sadness, 
Recall  the  morning  gladness 

Of  life,  at  evening  time, 
By  chance,  onlooking  idly, 
Apart  from  all  so  widely, 

Have  set  her  voyage  to  rhyme. 

Dies  now  the  gay  persistence 
Of  song  and  laugh,  in  distance  ; 

Alone  with  me  remaining 
The  stream,  the  quiet  meadow, 
The  hills  in  shine  and  shadow, 

The  sombre  pines  complaining. 

And,  musing  here,  I  dream 
Of  voyagers  on  a  stream 

From  whence  is  no  returning, 
Under  sealed  orders  going, 
Looking  forward  little  knowing, 

Looking  back  with  idle  yearning. 

And  I  pray  that  every  venture 
The  port  of  peace  may  enter, 


That,  safe  from  snag  and  fall 
And  siren-haunted  islet, 
And  rock,  the  Unseen  Pilot 

May  guide  us  one  and  all. 


MY  TRUST 

A  PICTURE  memory  brings  to  me  : 
I  look  across  the  years  and  see 
Myself  beside  my  mother's  knee. 

I  feel  her  gentle  hand  restrain 

My  selfish  moods,  and  know  again 

A  child's  blind  sense  of  wrong  and  pain. 

But  wiser  now,  a  man  gray  grown, 
My  childhood's  needs  are  better  known, 
My  mother's  chastening  love  I  own. 

Gray  grown,  but  in  our  Father's  sight 
A  child  still  groping  for  the  light 
To  read  His  works  and  ways  aright. 

I  wait,  in  His  good  time  to  see 
That  as  my  mother  dealt  with  me 
So  with  His  children  dealeth  He. 

I  bow  myself  beneath  His  hand  : 
That  pain  itself  was  wisely  planned 
I  feel,  and  partly  understand. 

The  joy  that  comes  in  sorrow's  guise, 
The  sweet  pains  of  self-sacrifice, 
I  would  not  have  them  otherwise. 

And  what  were  life  and  death  if  sin 
Knew  not  the  dread  rebuke  within, 
The  pang  of  merciful  discipline  ? 

Not  with  thy  proud  despair  of  old, 
Crowned  stoic  of  Rome's  noblest  mould ! 
Pleasure  and  pain  alike  I  hold. 

I  suffer  with  no  vain  pretence 
Of  triumph  over  flesh  and  sense, 
Yet  trust  the  grievous  providence, 

How  dark  soe'er  it  seems,  may  tend, 
By  ways  I  cannot  comprehend, 
To  some  unguessed  benignant  end  ; 

That  every  loss  and  lapse  may  gain 
The  clear-aired  heights  by  steps  of  pain, 
And  never  cross  is  borne  in  vain. 


412 


POEMS   SUBJECTIVE  AND   REMINISCENT 


A  NAME 

Addressed  to  ray  grand-nephew,  Greenleaf 
Whittier  Pickard.  Jonathan  Greenleaf,  in  A 
Geneuloc/y  of  the  Greenleaf  Family,  says  briefly: 
"  From  all  that  can  be  gathered,  it  is  believed 
that  the  ancestors  of  the  Greenleaf  family  were 
Huguenots,  who  left  France  on  account  of  their 
religious  principles  some  time  in  the  course  of 
the  sixteenth  century,  and  settled  in  England. 
The  name  was  probably  translated  from  the 
French  Feuillevert." 

THE  name  the  Gallic  exile  bore, 
St.  Malo  !  from  thy  ancient  mart, 

Became  upon  our  Western  shore 
Greenleaf  for  Feuillevert. 

A  name  to  hear  in  soft  accord 

Of  leaves  by  light  winds  overrun, 

Or  read,  upon  the  greening  sward 
Of  May,  in  shade  and  sun. 

The  name  my  infant  ear  first  heard 
Breathed  softly  with  a  mother's  kiss  ; 

His  mother's  own,  no  tenderer  word 
My  father  spake  than  this. 

No  child  have  I  to  bear  it  on  ; 

Be  thou  its  keeper  ;  let  it  take 
From  gifts  well  used  and  duty  done 

New  beauty  for  thy  sake. 

The  fair  ideals  that  outran 

My  halting  footsteps  seek  and  find  — 
The  flawless  symmetry  of  man, 

The  poise  of  heart  and  mind. 

Stand  firmly  where  I  felt  the  sway 
Of  every  wing  that  fancy  flew, 

See  clearly  where  I  groped  my  way, 
Nor  real  from  seeming  knew. 

And  wisely  choose,  and  bravely  hold 
Thy  faith  unswerved  by  cross  or  crovrn, 

Like  the  stout  Huguenot  of  old 
Whose  name  to  thee  comes  down. 

As  Marot's  songs  made  glad  the  heart 
Of  that  lone  exile,  haply  mine 

May  in  life's  heavy  hours  impart 
Some  strength  and  hope  to  thine. 

5Tet  when  did  Age  transfer  to  Youth 
The  hard-gained  lessons  of  its  day  ? 


Each  lip  must  learn  the  taste  of  truth, 
Each  foot  must  feel  its  way. 

We  cannot  hold  the  hands  of  choice 
That  touch  or  shun  life's  fateful  keys  ; 

The  whisper  of  the  inward  voice 
Is  more  than  homilies. 

Dear  boy  !  for  whom  the  flowers  are  born, 
Stars  shine,  and  happy  song-birds  sing, 

What  can  my  evening  give  to  morn, 
My  winter  to  thy  spring  ! 

A  life  not  void  of  pure  intent, 

With  small  desert  of  praise  or  blame, 

The  love  I  felt,  the  good  I  meant, 
I  leave  thee  with  my  name. 

GREETING 

Originally  prefixed  to  the  volume,  The  King's 
Missive  and  other  Poems.  [Entitled  there,  Th? 
Prelude.] 

I  SPREAD  a  scanty  board  too  late  ; 
The  old-time  guests  for  whom  I  wait 

Come  few  and  slow,  methinks,  to-day. 
Ah  !  who  could  hear  my  messages 
Across  the  dim  unsounded  seas 

On  which  so  many  have  sailed  away  ! 

Come,  then,  old  friends,  who  linger  yet, 
And  let  us  meet,  as  we  have  met, 

Once  more  beneath  this  low  sunshine  ; 
And  grateful  for  the  good  we  've  known, 
The  riddles  solved,  the  ills  outgrown, 

Shake  hands  upon  the  border  line. 

The  favor,  asked  too  oft  before, 
From  your  indulgent  ears,  once  more 

I  crave,  and,  if  belated  lays 
To  slower,  feebler  measures  move, 
The  silent  sympathy  of  love 

To  me  is  dearer  now  than  praise. 

And  ye,  O  younger  friends,  for  whom 
My  hearth  and  heart  keep  open  room, 

Come  smiling  through  the  shadows  long 
Be  with  me  while  the  sun  goes  down, 
And  with  your  cheerful  voices  drown 

The  minor  of  my  even-song. 

For,  equal  through  the  day  and  night, 
The  wise  Eternal  oversight 

And  love  and  power  and  righteous  will 


ABRAM   MORRISON 


Remain  :  the  law  of  destiny, 
The  best  for  each  and  all  must  be, 
And  life  its  promise  shall  fulfil. 

AN    AUTOGRAPH 

I  WRITE  my  name  as  one, 
On  sands  by  waves  o'errun 
Or  winter's  frosted  pane, 
Traces  a  record  vain. 

Oblivion's  blankness  claims 
Wiser  and  better  names, 
And  well  my  own  may  pass 
As  from  the  strand  or  glass. 

Wash  on,  O  waves  of  time  ! 
Melt,  noons,  the  frosty  rime  ! 
Welcome  the  shadow  vast, 
The  silence  that  shall  last  ! 

When  I  and  all  who  know 
And  love  me  vanish  so, 
What  harm  to  them  or  me 
Will  the  lost  memory  be  ? 

If  any  words  of  mine, 
Through  right  of  life  divine, 
Remain,  what  matters  it 
Whose  hand  the  message  writ  ? 

Why  should  the  "  crowner's  quest  " 
Sit  on  my  worst  or  best  ? 
Why  should  the  showman  claim 
The  poor  ghost  of  my  name  ? 

Yet,  as  when  dies  a  sound 
Its  spectre  lingers  round, 
Haply  my  spent  life  will 
Leave  some  faint  echo  still. 

A  whisper  giving  breath 
Of  praise  or  blame  to  death, 
Soothing  or  saddening  such 
As  loved  the  living  much. 

Therefore  with  yearnings  vain 
And  fond  I  still  would  fain 
A  kindly  judgment  seek, 
A  tender  thought  bespeak. 

And,  while  my  words  are  read, 
Let  this  at  least  be  said  : 
"  Whate'er  his  life's  defeatures, 
He  loved  his  fellow-creatures. 


"  If,  of  the  Law's  stone  table, 
To  hold  he  scarce  was  able 
The  first  great  precept  fast, 
He  kept  for  man  the  last. 

"  Through  mortal  lapse  and  dulness 
What  lacks  the  Eternal  Fulness, 
If  still  our  weakness  can 
Love  Him  in  loving  man  ? 

"  Age  brought  him  no  despairing 
Of  the  world's  future  faring  ; 
In  human  nature  still 
He  found  more  good  than  ill. 

«  To  all  who  dumbly  suffered, 
His  tongue  and  pen  he  offered  ; 
His  life  was  not  his  own, 
Nor  lived  for  self  alone. 

"  Hater  of  din  and  riot 
He  lived  in  days  unquiet  ; 
And,  lover  of  all  beauty, 
Trod  the  hard  ways  of  duty. 

"  He  meant  no  wrong  to  any 
He  sought  the  good  of  many, 
Yet  knew  both  sin  and  folly, — 
May  God  forgive  him  wholly  ! " 


ABRAM    MORRISON 

'MiDST  the  men  and  things  which  will 
Haunt  an  old  man's  memory  still, 
Drollest,  quaintest  of  them  all, 
With  a  boy's  laugh  I  recall 

Good  old  Abram  Morrison. 

When  the  Grist  and  Rolling  Mill 
Ground  and  rumbled  by  Po  Hill, 
And  the  old  red  school-house  stood 
Midway  in  the  Powow's  flood, 

Here  dwelt  Abram  Morrison. 

From  the  Beach  to  far  bejond 
Bear-Hill,  Lion's  Mouth  and  Pond, 
Marvellous  to  our  tough  old  stock, 
Chips  o'  the  Anglo-Saxon  block, 
Seemed  the  Celtic  Morrison. 

Mudknock,  Balma whistle,  all 
Only  knew  the  Yankee  drawl, 
Never  brogue  was  heard  till  when, 


4*4 


POEMS    SUBJECTIVE  AND   REMINISCENT 


Foremost  of  his  countrymen, 

Hither  came  Friend  Morrison  ; 

Yankee  born,  of  alien  blood, 
Kin  of  his  had  well  withstood 
Pope  and  King  with  pike  and  ball 
Under  Derry's  leaguered  wall, 
As  became  the  Morrisons. 

Wandering  down  from  Nutfield  woods 
With  his  household  and  his  goods, 
Never  was  it  clearly  told 
How  within  our  quiet  fold 
Came  to  be  a  Morrison. 

Once  a  soldier,  blame  him  not 
That  the  Quaker  he  forgot, 
When,  to  think  of  battles  won, 
And  the  red-coats  on  the  run, 

Laughed  aloud  Friend  Morrison. 

From  gray  Lewis  over  sea 
Bore  his  sires  their  family  tree, 
On  the  rugged  boughs  of  it 
Grafting  Irish  mirth  and  wit, 

And  the  brogue  of  Morrison. 

Half  a  genius,  quick  to  plan, 
Blundering  like  an  Irishman, 
But  with  canny  shrewdness  lent 
By  his  far-off  Scotch  descent, 
Such  was  Abram  Morrison. 

Back  and  forth  to  daily  meals, 
Rode  his  cherished  pig  on  wheels, 
And  to  all  who  came  to  see, 
Aisier  for  the  pig  an'  me, 

Sure  it  is,"  said  Morrison. 

Simple-hearted,  boy  o'ergrown, 
With  a  humor  quite  his  own, 
Of  our  sober-stepping  ways, 
Speech  and  look  and  cautious  phrase, 
Slow  to  learn  was  Morrison. 

Much  we  loved  his  stories  told 
Of  a  country  strange  and  old, 
Where  the  fairies  danced  till  dawn, 
And  the  goblin  Leprecaun 

Looked,  we  thought,  like  Morrison. 

Or  wild  tales  of  feud  and  fight, 
Witch  and  troll  and  second  sight 
Whispered  still  where  Stornoway 


Looks  across  its  stormy  bay, 

Once  the  home  of  Morrisons. 

First  was  he  to  sing  the  praise 
Of  the  Powow's  winding  ways  ; 
And  our  straggling  village  took 
City  grandeur  to  the  look 
Of  its  poet  Morrison. 

All  his  words  have  perished.     Shame 
On  the  saddle-bags  of  Fame, 
That  they  bring  not  to  our  time 
One  poor  couplet  of  the  rhyme 
Made  by  Abram  Morrison  ! 

When,  on  calm  and  fair  First  Days, 
Rattled  down  our  one-horse  chaise, 
Through  the  blossomed  apple-boughs 
To  the  old  brown  meeting-house, 
There  was  Abram  Morrison. 

Underneath  his  hat's  broad  brim 
Peered  the  queer  old  face  of  him  ; 
And  with  Iri^h  jauntiness 
Swung  the  coat-tails  of  the  dress 
Worn  by  Abram  Morrison. 

Still,  in  memory,  on  his  feet, 
Leaning  o'er  the  elders'  seat, 
Mingling  with  a  solemn  drone, 
Celtic  accents  all  his  own, 
Rises  Abram  Morrison. 

"  Don't,"  he  's  pleading,  "don't  ye  go, 
Dear  young  friends,  to  sight  and  show  , 
Don't  run  after  elephants, 
Learned  pigs  and  presidents 

And  the  likes  !  "  said  Morrison. 

On  his  well-worn  theme  intent, 
Simple,  child-like,  innocent, 
Heaven  forgive  the  half-checked  smile 
Of  our  careless  boyhood,  while 

Listening  to  Friend  Morrison  ! 

We  have  learned  in  latter  days 
Truth  may  speak  in  simplest  phrase  ; 
That  the  man  is  not  the  less 
For  quaint  ways  and  home-spun  dress. 
Thanks  to  Abram  Morrison  ! 

Not  to  pander  nor  to  please 
Come  the  needed  homilies, 
With  no  lofty  argument 


A   LEGACY 


Is  the  fitting  message  sent, 

Through  such  lips  as  Morrison's. 

Dead  and  gone  !     But  while  its  track 
Powow  keeps  to  Merrimac, 
While  Po  Hill  is  still  on  guard, 
Looking  land  and  ocean  ward, 
They  shall  tell  of  Morrison  ! 

After  half  a  century's  lapse, 
We  are  wiser  now,  perhaps, 
But  we  miss  our  streets  amid 
Something  which  the  past  has  hid, 
Lost  with  Abram  Morrison. 

Gone  forever  with  the  queer 
Characters  of  that  old  year  ! 
Now  the  many  are  as  one  ; 
Broken  is  the  mould  that  run 
Men  like  Abram  Morrison. 


A  LEGACY 

FRIEND  of  my  many  years  ! 
When  the  great  silence  falls,  at  last,  on  me, 


Let  me  not  leave,  to  pain  and  sadden  thee, 
A  memory  of  tears, 

But  pleasant  thoughts  alone 
Of  one  who  was  thy  friendship's  honored 

guest 
And  drank  the  wine  of  consolation  pressed 

From  sorrows  of  thy  own. 

I  leave  with  thee  a  sense 
Of  hands  upheld  and  trials  rendered  less  — 
The  unselfish  joy  which  is  to  helpfulness 

Its  own  great  recompense  ; 

The  knowledge  that  from  thine, 
As   from    the    garments    of    the    Master, 

stole 
Calmness  and  strength,  the  virtue  which 

makes  whole 
And  heals  without  a  sign  ; 

Yea  more,  the  assurance  strong 
That  love,  which  fails  of  perfect  utterance 

here, 
Lives  on  to  fill  the  heavenly  atmosphere 

With  its  immortal  song. 


RELIGIOUS  POEMS 


THE    STAR    OF    BETHLEHEM 

WrHERE  Time  the  measure  of  his  hours 
By  changeful  bud  and  blossom  keeps, 

And,   like    a   young   bride    crowned   with 

flowers, 
Fair  Shiraz  in  her  garden  sleeps  ; 

Where,  to  her  poet's  turban  stone, 

The  Spring  her  gift  of  flowers  imparts, 

Less  sweet  than  those  his  thoughts  have 

sown 
In  the  warm  soil  of  Persian  hearts  : 

There  sat  the  stranger,  where  the  shade 
Of  scattered  date-trees  thinly  lay, 

While  in  the  hot  clear  heaven  delayed 
The  long  and  still  and  weary  day. 

Strange  trees  and  fruits  above  him  hung, 
Strange  odors  filled  the  sultry  air, 

Strange  birds  upon  the  branches  swung, 
Strange  insect  voices  murmured  there. 

And  strange  bright  blossoms  shone  around, 
Turned  sunward  from  the  shadowy  bow 
ers, 

As  if  the  Gheber's  soul  had  found 
A  fitting  home  in  Iran's  flowers. 

Whate'er  he  saw,  whate'er  he  heard, 
Awakened  feelings  new  and  sad,  — 

Uo  Christian  garb,  nor  Christian  word, 
Nor  church  with    Sabbath  -  bell   chimes 
glad, 

But  Moslem  graves,  with  turban  stones, 
And   mosque-spires  gleaming   white,  in 
view, 

And  graybeard  Mollahs  in  low  tones 
Chanting  their  Koran  service  through. 

The  flowers  which  smiled  on  either  hand, 
Like  tempting  fiends,  were  such  as  they 

Which  once,  o'er  all  that  Eastern  land, 
As  gifts  on  demon  altars  lay. 


As  if  the  burning  eye  of  Baal 

The  servant  of  his  Conqueror  knew, 

From  skies  which  knew  no  cloudy  veil, 
The  Sun's  hot  glances  smote  him  through 

"  Ah  me  !  "  the  lonely  stranger  said, 
"  The  hope  which  led  my  footsteps  on, 

And  light  from  heaven  around  them  shed, 
O'er  weary  wave  and  waste,  is  gone  ! 

"  Where  are  the  harvest  fields  all  white, 
For  Truth  to  thrust  her  sickle  in  ? 

Where  flock  the  souls,  like  doves  in  flight, 
From  the  dark  hiding-place  jf  sin  ? 

"  A  silent  horror  broods  o'er  all, — 
The  burden  of  a  hateful  spell,  — 

The  very  flowers  around  recall 
The  hoary  magi's  rites  of  hell  ! 

"  And  what  am  I,  o'er  such  a  land 
The  banner  of  the  Cross  to  bear  ? 

Dear  Lord,  uphold  me  with  Thy  hand, 
Thy    strength    with    human     weakness 
share  !  " 

He  ceased  ;  for  at  his  very  feet 
In  mild  rebuke  a  floweret  smiled  ; 

How  thrilled  his  sinking  heart  to  greet 
The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin's  child  ! 

Sown  by  some  wandering  Frank,  it  drew 
Its  life  from  alien  air  and  earth, 

And  told  to  Paynim  sun  and  dew 
The  story  of  the  Saviour's  birth. 

From  scorching  beams,  in  kindly  mood, 
The  Persian  plants  its  beauty  screened, 

And  on  its  pagan  sisterhood, 

In  love,  the  Christian  floweret  leaned. 

With  tears  of  joy  the  wanderer  felt 
The  darkness  of  his  long  despair 

Before  that  hallowed  symbol  melt, 

Which    God's   dear  love    had   nurtured 
there. 


416 


THE   CALL   OF   THE   CHRISTIAN 


From  Nature's  face,  that  simple  flower 
The  lines  of  sin  and  sadness  swept  ; 

And  Magian  pile  and  Paynini  bower 
In  peace  like  that  of  Eden  slept. 

Each  Moslem  tomb,  and  cypress  old, 
Looked  holy  through  the  sunset  air  ; 

And,  angel-like,  the  Muezzin  told 

From  tower  and   mosque    the    hour   of 
prayer. 

With  cheerful  steps,  the  morrow's  dawn 
From  Shiraz  saw  the  stranger  part  ; 

The  Star-flower  of  the  Virgin-Born 
Still  blooming  in  his  hopeful  heart  ! 


THE    CITIES    OF    THE    PLAIN 

"  GET  ye  up  from  the  wrath  of  God's  ter 
rible  day  ! 

Un girded,  unsandalled,  arise  and  away  ! 

'T  is  the  vintage  of  blood,  't  is  the  fulness 
of  time, 

And  vengeance  shall  gather  the  harvest  of 
crime  ! " 

The  warning  was  spoken  —  the  righteous 
had  gone, 

And  the  proud  ones  of  Sodom  were  feast 
ing  alo.:e ; 

All  gay  was  the  banquet  —  the  revel  was 
long, 

With  the  pouring  of  wine  and  the  breath 
ing  of  song. 

'T  was  an  evening  of  beauty  ;  the  air  was 

perfume, 
The  earth  was  all  greenness,  the  trees  were 

all  bloom  ; 

And  softly  the  delicate  viol  was  heard, 
Like  the  murmur  of  love  or  the  notes  of  a 

bird. 

And  beautiful  maidens  moved  down  in  the 

dance, 
With  the  magic  of  motion  and  sunshine  of 

glance  ; 
And    white    arms    wreathed    lightly,   and 

tresses  fell  free 
As  the  plumage  of  birds  in  some  tropical 

tree. 


Where  the  shrines  of  foul  idols  were  lighted 
on  high, 

And  wantonness  tempted  the  lust  of  the 
eye  ; 

Midst  rites  of  obsceneness,  strange,  loath 
some,  abhorred, 

The  blasphemer  scoffed  at  the  name  of  the 
Lord. 

Hark !    the   growl   of   the   thunder,  —  the 

quaking  of  earth  ! 
Woe,  woe  to  the  worship,  and  woe  to  the 

mirth  ! 
The  black  sky  has  opened  ;  there  's  flame 

in  the  air  ; 
The  red   arm   of   vengeance  is  lifted  and 

bare  ! 

Then  the  shriek  of  the  dying  rose  wild 
where  the  song 

And  the  low  tone  of  love  had  been  whis 
pered  along  ; 

For  the  fierce  flames  went  lightly  o'er  pal 
ace  and  bower, 

Like  the  red  tongues  of  demons,  to  blast 
and  devour  ! 

Down,  down  on  the  fallen  the  red  ruin 
rained, 

And  the  reveller  sank  with  his  wine-cup 
undrained  ; 

The  foot  of  the  dancer,  the  music's  loved 
thrill, 

And  the  shout  and  the  laughter  grew  sud 
denly  still. 

The  last    throb   of   anguish  was  fearfully 

given  ; 
The  last  eye  glared  forth  in  its  madness  on 

Heaven  ! 
The  last  groan  of  horror  rose  wildly  and 

vain, 
And  death  brooded  over  the  pride  of  the 

Plain  ! 


THE   CALL   OF    THE    CHRISTIAN 

NOT  always  as  the  whirlwind's  rush 

On  Horeb's  mount  of  fear, 
Not  always  as  the  burning  bush 

To  Midian's  shepherd  seer, 


4i8 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Nor  as  the  awful  voice  which  came 

To  Israel's  prophet  bards, 
Nor  as  the  tongues  of  cloven  flame, 

Nor  gift  of  fearful  words,  — 

Not  always  thus,  with  outward  sign 

Of  fire  or  voice  from  Heaven, 
The  message  of  a  truth  divine, 

The  call  of  God  is  given  ! 
Awaking  in  the  human  heart 

Love  for  the  true  and  right,  — 
Zeal  for  the  Christian's  better  part, 

Strength  for  the  Christian's  fight. 

Nor  unto  manhood's  heart  alone 

The  holy  influence  steals  : 
Warm  with  a  rapture  not  its  own, 

The  heart  of  woman  feels ! 
As  she  who  by  Samaria's  wall 

The  Saviour's  errand  sought, — 
As  those  who  with  the  fervent  Paul 

And  meek  Aquila  wrought  : 

Or  those  meek  ones  whose  martyrdom 

Rome's  gathered  grandeur  saw  : 
Or  those  who  in  their  Alpine  home 

Braved  the  Crusader's  war, 
When  the  green  Vaudois,  trembling,  heard, 

Through  all  its  vales  of  death, 
The  martyr's  song  of  triumph  poured 

From  woman's  failing  breath. 

And  gently,  by  a  thousand  things 

Which  o'er  our  spirits  pass, 
Like  breezes  o'er  the  harp's  fine  strings, 

Or  vapors  o'er  a  glass, 
Leaving  their  token  strange  and  new 

Of  music  or  of  shade, 
The  summons  to  the  right  and  true 

And  merciful  is  made. 

Oh,  then,  if  gleams  of  truth  and  light 

Flash  o'er  thy  waiting  mind, 
Unfolding  to  thy  mental  sight 

The  wants  of  human-kind  ; 
If,  brooding  over  human  grief, 

The  earnest  wish  is  known 
To  soothe  and  gladden  with  relief 

An  anguish  not  thine  own  ; 

Though  heralded  with  naught  of  fear, 

Or  outward  sign  or  show  ; 
Though  only  to  the  inward  ear 

It  whispers  soft  and  low  ; 


Though  dropping,  as  the  manna  fell, 

Unseen,  yet  from  above, 
Noiseless  as  dew-tall,  heed  it  well, — 

Thy  Father's  call  of  love  ! 

THE   CRUCIFIXION 

SUNLIGHT  upon  Judsea's  hills  ! 

And  on  the  waves  of  Galilee  ; 
On  Jordan's  stream,  and  on  the  rills 

That  feed  the  dead  and  sleeping  sea  f 
Most  freshly  from  the  green  wood  springs 
The  light  breeze  on  its  scented  wings  ; 
And  gayly  quiver  in  the  sun 
The  cedar  tops  of  Lebanon  ! 

A  few  more  hours,  —  a  change  hath  come  ! 

The  sky  is  dark  without  a  cloud  ! 
The  shouts  of  wrath  and  joy  are  dumb, 

And  proud  knees  unto  earth  are  bowed. 
A  change  is  on  the  hill  of  Death, 
The  helmed  watchers  pant  for  breath, 
And  turn  with  wild  and  maniac  eyes 
From  the  dark  scene  of  sacrifice  ! 

That  Sacrifice  !  —  the  death  of  Him,  — 

The  Christ  of  God,  the  holy  One  ! 
Well  may  the  conscious  Heaven  grow  dim, 

And  blacken  the  beholding  Sun. 
The  wonted  light  hath  fled  away, 
Night  settles  on  the  middle  day, 
And  earthquake  from  his  caverned  bed 
Is  waking  with  a  thrill  of  dread  ! 

The  deud  are  waking  underneath  ! 

Their  prison  door  is  rent  away  ! 
And,  ghastly  with  the  seal  of  death 

They  wander  in  the  eye  of  day  ! 
The  temple  of  the  Cherubim, 
The  House  of  God  is  cold  and  dim  ; 
A  curse  is  on  its  trembling  walls, 
Its  mighty  veil  asunder  falls  ! 

Well  may  the  cavern-depths  of  Earth 
Be  shaken,  and  her  mountains  nod  ; 
WTell  may  the  sheeted  dead  come  forth 

To  see  the  suffering  son  of  God  ! 
Well  may  the  temple-shrine  grow  dim, 
And  shadows  veil  the  Cherubim, 
When  He,  the  chosen  one  of  Heaven, 
A  sacrifice  for  guilt  is  given  ! 

And  shall  the  sinful  heart,  alone, 
Behold  unmoved  the  fearful  hour, 


PALESTINE 


419 


When  Nature  trembled  on  her  throne, 
And  Death  resigned  his  iron  power  ? 
Oh,  shall  the  heart  —  whose  sin  fulness 
Gave  keenness  to  His  sore  distress, 
And  added  to  His  tears  of  blood  — 
Refuse  its  trembling  gratitude  ? 


PALESTINE 

BLEST  land  of  Judaea  !    thrice  hallowed  of 

song, 
Where  the  holiest  of  memories  pilgrim-like 

throng  ; 
In  the  shade  of  thy  palms,  by  the  shores  of 

thy  sea, 
On  the  hills  of  thy  beauty,  my  heart  is  with 

thee. 

W>'th  the  eye  of   a  spirit  I   look  on  that 

shore 
Where  pilgrim  and  prophet  have  lingered 

before  ; 
With  the  glide  of  a  spirit  I  traverse  the 

sod 
Made  bright  by  the  steps  of  the  angels  of 

God. 

Blue  sea  of  the  hills  !  in  my  spirit  I  hear 
Thy   waters,    Gennesaret,    chime    on    my 

ear ; 
Where  the  Lowly  and  Just  with  the  people 

sat  down, 
And  thy  spray  on  the  dust  of  His  sandals 

was  thrown. 

Beyond  are  Bethulia's  mountains  of  green, 
And  the  desolate  hills  of  the  wild  Gada- 

rene  ; 
And  I  pause  on  the  goat-crags  of  Tabor  to 

see 
The  gleam  of  thy  waters,  O  dark  Galilee  ! 

Hark,  a  sound  in  the  valley  !  where,  swollen 

and  strong, 

Thy  river,  O  Kishon,  is  sweeping  along  ; 
Where  the  Canaanite  strove  with  Jehovah 

in  vain, 
And  thy  torrent  grew  dark  with  the  blood 

of  the  slain. 

There  down  from  his  mountains  stern  Zeb- 

ulon  came, 
And  Naphthali's  stag,  with  his  eyeballs  of 

flame, 


And  the  chariots  of  Jabin  rolled  harmlessly 

on, 
For  the  arm  of  the  Lord  was  Abiiioam's 

son  ! 

There  sleep  the  still  rocks  and  the  caverns 
which  rang 

To  the  song  which  the  beautiful  prophetess 
sang, 

When  the  princes  of  Issachar  stood  by  her 
side, 

And  the  shout  of  a  host  in  its  triumph  re 
plied. 

Lo,  Bethlehem's  hill-site  before  me  is  seen, 
With  the  mountains  around,  and  the  valleys 

between  ; 
There  rested  the  shepherds  of  Judah,  and 

there 
The  song  of  the  angels  rose  sweet  on  the 

air. 

And  Bethany's  palm-trees  in  beauty  still 

throw 

Their  shadows  at  noon  on  the  ruins  below  ', 
But  where  are  the  sisters  who  hastened  to 

greet 
The  lowly  Redeemer,  and  sit  at  His  feet  ? 

I  tread  where  the  twelve  in  their  wayfaring 
trod  ; 

I  stand  where  they  stood  with  the  chosen  of 
God  — 

Where  His  blessing  was  heard  and  His  les 
sons  were  taught, 

Where  the  blind  were  restored  and  the 
healing  was  wrought. 

Oh,  here  with  His  flock  the  sad  Wanderei 

came  ; 
These  hills  He  toiled  over  in  grief  are  the 

same  ; 
The  founts  where  He  drank  by  the  wayside 

still  flow, 
And    the    same    airs    are   blowing   which 

breathed  on  His  brow  ! 

And  throned  on  her  hills  sits  Jerusalem 

.jet, 
But  with  dust  on  her  forehead,  and  chains 

on  her  feet  ; 
For  the  crown  of  her  pride  to  the  mocker 

hath  gone, 
And  the  holy  Shechinah  is  dark  where  it 

shone. 


42  o 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


But  wherefore  this  dream  of  the  earthly 
abode 

Of  Humanity  clothed  in  the  brightness  of 
God? 

Were  my  spirit  but  turned  from  the  out 
ward  and  dim, 

It  could  gaze,  even  now,  on  the  presence  of 
Him  ! 

Not  in  clouds  and  in  terrors,  but  gentle  as 

when, 
In  love  and  in  meekness,  He  moved  among 

men  ; 
And  the  voice  which  breathed  peace  to  the 

waves  of  the  sea 
In  the  hush  of  my  spirit  would  whisper  to 

me  ! 

And  what  if  my  feet  may  not  tread  where 

He  stood, 
Nor  my  ears  hear  the  dashing  of  Galilee's 

flood, 
Nor  my  eyes  see  the  cross  which  He  bowed 

Him  to  bear, 
Nor  my  knees  press  Gethsemane's  garden 

of  prayer. 

Yet,  Loved  of  the  Father,  Thy  Spirit  is  near 
To  the  meek,  and  the  lowly,  and  penitent 

here  ; 
And  the  voice  of  Thy  love  is  the  same  even 

now 
As  at  Bethany's  tomb  or  on  Olivet's  brow. 

Oh,  the  outward  hath  gone  !  but  in  glory 

and  power, 

The  spirit  surviveth  the  things  of  an  hour  ; 
Unchanged,  undecaying,  its  Pentecost  flame 
On  the  heart's  secret  altar  is  burning  the 

same  ! 


HYMNS 

FROM    THE    FRENCH     OF    LAMARTINE 
I 

"  Encore  nn  hymne,  0  m;i  lyre  ! 
Un  hymne  pour  le  Seigneur, 
Un  hymne  dans  mon  dtjlire, 
Un  hymne  dans  mon  bonheur." 

ONE  hymn  more,  O  my  lyre  ! 
Praise  to  the  God  above, 
Of  joy  and  life  and  love, 

Sweeping  its  strings  of  fire  ! 


Oh,  who  the  speed  of  bird  and  wind 

And  sunbeam's  glance  will  lend  to  me, 
That,  soaring  upward,  I  may  find 

My  resting-place  and  home  in  Thee  ? 
Thou,    whom   my   soul,   midst   doubt   and 
gloom, 

Adoreth  with  a  fervent  flame,  — 
Mysterious  spirit !  unto  whom 

Pertain  nor  sign  nor  name  1 

Swiftly  my  lyre's  soft  murmurs  go 

Up  from  the  cold  and  joyless  earth, 
Back  to  the  God  who  bade  them  flow, 

Whose  moving  spirit  sent  them  forth. 
But  as  for  me,  O  God  !  for  me, 

The  lowly  creature  of  Thy  will, 
Lingering  and  sad,  I  sigh  to  Thee, 

An  earth-bound  pilgrim  still ! 

Was  not  my  spirit  born  to  shine 

Where  yonder  stars  and  suns  are  glow- 

ing? 
To  breathe  with  them  the  light  divine 

From  God's  own  holy  altar  flowing  ? 
To  be,  indeed,  whate'er  the  soul 

In  dreams  hath  thirsted  for  so  long,  — 
A  portion  of  heaven's  glorious  whole 

Of  loveliness  and  song  ? 

Oh,  watchers  of  the  stars  at  night, 

Who  breathe  their  fire,  as  we  the  air,  — 
Suns,  thunders,  stars,  and  rays  of  light, 

Oh,  say,  is  He,  the  Eternal,  there  ? 
Bend  there  around  His  awful  throne 

The  seraph's  glance,  the  angel's  knee  ? 
Or  are  thy  inmost  depths  His  own, 

O  wild  and  mighty  sea  ? 

Thoughts  of  my  soul,  how  swift  ye  go   , 

Swift  as  the  eagle's  glance  of  fire, 
Or  arrows  from  the  archer's  bow, 

To  the  far  aim  of  your  desire  ! 
Thought  after  thought,  ye  thronging  rise, 

Like  spring-doves  from  the  startled  wood, 
Bearing  like  them  your  sacrifice 

Of  music  unto  God  ! 

And  shall  these  thoughts  of  joy  and  love 

Come  back  again  no  more  to  me  ? 
Returning  like  the  patriarch's  dove 

Wing-weary  from  the  eternal  sea, 
To  bear  within  my  longing  arms 

The  promise-bough  of  kindlier  skies, 
Plucked  from  the  green,  immortal  palms 

Which  shadow  Paradise  ? 


HYMNS 


421 


All-moving  spirit !  freely  forth 

At  Thy  command  the  strong  wind  goes  : 
Its  errand  to  the  passive  earth, 

Nor  art  can  stay,  nor  strength  oppose, 
Until  it  folds  its  weary  wing 

Once  more  within  the  hand  divine  ; 
So,  weary  from  its  wandering, 

My  spirit  turns  to  Thine  ! 

Child  of  the  sea,  the  mountain  stream, 

From  its  dark  caverns,  hurries  on, 
Ceaseless,  by  night  and  morning's  beam, 

By  evening's  star  and  noontide's  sun, 
Until  at  last  it  sinks  to  rest, 

O'erwearied,  in  the  waiting  sea, 
And  moans  upon  its  mother's  breast,  — 

So  turns  my  soul  to  Thee  ! 

O  Thou  who  bidst  the  torrent  flow, 

Who  lendest  wings  unto  the  wind,  — 
Mover  of  all  things  !  where  art  Thou  ? 

Oh,  whither  shall  I  go  to  find 
The  secret  of  Thy  resting-place  ? 

Is  there  no  holy  wing  for  me, 
That,  soaring,  I  may  search  the  space 

Of  highest  heaven  for  Thee  ? 

Oh,  would  I  were  as  free  to  rise 

As  leaves  on  autumn's  whirlwind  borne,  — 
The  arrowy  light  of  sunset  skies, 

Or  sound,  or  ray,  or  star  of  morn, 
Which  melts  in  heaven  at  twilight's  close, 

Or  aught  which  soars  unchecked  and  free 
Through  earth  and  heaven  ;  that  I  might 
lose 

Myself  in  finding  Thee  ! 


II 


LE  CRI  DE  L'AME 

"Quand  le  souffle  divin  qui  flotte  sur  le  monde." 

When  the  breath  divine  is  flowing, 
Zephyr-like  o'er  all  things  going, 
And,  as  the  touch  of  viewless  fingers, 
Softly  on  my  soul  it  lingers, 
Open  to  a  breath  the  lightest, 
Conscious  of  a  touch  the  slightest,  — 
As  some  calm,  still  lake,  whereon 
Sinks  the  snowy-bosomed  swan, 
And  the  glistening  water-rings 
Circle  round  her  moving  wings  : 
When  my  upward  gaze  is  turning 
Where  the  stars  of  heaven  are  burning: 


Through  the  deep  and  dark  abyss,  — 
Flowers  of  midnight's  wilderness, 
Blowing  with  the  evening's  breath 
Sweetly  in  their  Maker's  path  : 
When  the  breaking  day  is  flushing 
All  the  east,  and  light  is  gushing 
Upward  through  the  horizon's  haze, 
Sheaf-like,  with  its  thousand  rays, 
Spreading,  until  all  above 
Overflows  with  joy  and  love, 
And  below,  on  earth's  green  bosom, 
All  is  changed  to  light  and  blossom  : 

When  my  waking  fancies  over 
Forms  of  brightness  flit  and  hover 
Holy  as  the  seraphs  are, 
Who  by  Zion's  fountains  wear 
On  their  foreheads,  white  and  broad, 
"  Holiness  unto  the  Lord  !  " 
When,  inspired  with  rapture  high, 
It  would  seem  a  single  sigh 
Could  a  world  of  love  create  ; 
That  my  life  could  know  no  date, 
And  my  eager  thoiights  could  fill 
Heaven  and  Earth,  o'erflowing  still ! 

Then,  O  Father  !     Thou  alone, 

From  the  shadow  of  Thy  throne, 

To  the  sighing  of  my  breast 

And  its  rapture  answerest. 

All  my  thoughts,  which,  upward  winging, 

Bathe  where  Thy  own  light  is  springing,  — 

All  my  yearnings  to  be  free 

Are  as  echoes  answering  Thee  ! 

Seldom  upon  lips  of  mine, 
Father  !  rests  that  name  of  Thine  ; 
Deep  within  my  inmost  breast, 
In  the  secret  place  of  mind, 
Like  an  awful  presence  shrined, 
Doth  the  dread  idea  rest  ! 
Hushed  and  holy  dwells  it  there, 
Prompter  of  the  silent  prayer, 
Lifting  up  my  spirit's  eye 
And  its  faint,  but  earnest  cry, 
From  its  dark  and  cold  abode, 
Unto  Thee,  my  Guide  and  God  ! 


THE    FAMILIST'S    HYMN 

The  Puritans  of  New  England,  even  in  theii 
wilderness  home,  were  not  exempted  from  the 
sectarian  contentions  which  agitated  the  mo 
ther  country  after  the  downfall  of  Charles  the 


422 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


First,  and  of  the  established  Episcopacy.  The 
Quakers,  Baptists,  and  Catholics  were  banished, 
on  pain  of  death,  from  the  Massachusetts  Col 
ony.  One  Samuel  Gorton,  a  bold  and  eloquent 
declaimer,  after  preaching-  for  a  time  in  Bos 
ton  against  the  doctrines  of  the  Puritans,  and 
declaring  that  their  churches  were  mere  hu 
man  devices,  and  their  sacrament  and  baptism 
an  abomination,  was  driven  out  of  the  juris 
diction  of  the  colony,  and  compelled  to  seek  a 
residence  among-  the  savages.  He  gathered 
round  him  a  considerable  number  of  converts, 
who.  like  the  primitive  Christians,  shared  all 
things  in  common.  His  opinions,  however, 
were  so  troublesome  to  the  leading-  clergy  of 
the  colony,  that  they  instigated  an  attack 
upon  his  ''  Family  "  by  an  armed  force,  which 
seized  upon  the  principal  men  in  it,  and 
brought  them  into  Massachusetts,  where  they 
were  sentenced  to  be  kept  at  hard  labor  in 
several  towns  (one  only  in  each  town),  during 
the  pleasure  of  the  General  Court,  they  being 
forbidden,  under  severe  penalties,  to  utter  any 
of  their  religious  sentiments,  except  to  such 
ministers  as  might  labor  for  their  conversion. 
They  were  unquestionably  sincere  in  their 
opinions,  and,  whatever  may  have  been  their 
errors,  deserve  to  be  ranked  among-  those  who 
have  in  all  ag-es  suffered  for  the  freedom  of 
conscience. 

FATHER  !  to  Thy  suffering  poor 

Strength  and  grace  and  faith  impart, 
And  with  Thy  own  love  restore 

Comfort  to  the  broken  beart  ! 
Oh,  the  failing  ones  confirm 

With  a  holier  strength  of  zeal  ! 
Give  Thou  not  the  feeble  worm 

Helpless  to  the  spoiler's  heel  ! 

Father  !  for  Thy  holy  sake 

We  are  spoiled  and  hunted  thus  ; 
Joyful,  for  Thy  truth  we  take 

Bonds  and  burthens  unto  us  : 
Poor,  and  weak,  and  robbed  of  all, 

Weary  with  our  daily  task, 
That  Thy  truth  may  never  fall 

Through  our  weakr  ^ss,  Lord,  we  ask. 

Round  our  fired  and  wasted  homes 

Flits  the  forest-bird  unscared, 
And  at  noon  the  wild  beast  comes 

Where  our  frugal  meal  was  shared  ; 
For  the  song  of  praises  there 

Shrieks  the  crow  the  livelong  day  ; 
For  the  sound  of  evening  prayer 

Howls  the  evil  beast  of  prey. 


Sweet  the  songs  we  loved  to  sing 

Underneath  Thy  holy  sky  ; 
WTords  and  tones  that  used  to  bring 

Tears  of  joy  in  every  eye  ; 
Dear  the  wrestling  hours  of  prayer, 

When  we  gathered  knee  to  knee, 
Blameless  youth  and  hoary  hair, 

Bowed,  O  God,  alone  to  Thee. 

As  Thine  early  children,  Lord, 

Shared  their  wealth  and  daily  bread, 
Even  so,  with  one  accord, 

We,  in  love,  each  other  fed. 
Not  with  us  the  miser's  hoard, 

Not  with  us  his  grasping  hand; 
Equal  round  a  common  board, 

Drew  our  meek  and  brother  band  ! 

Safe  our  quiet  Eden  lay 

When  the  war-whoop  stirred  the  land 
And  the  Indian  turned  away 

From  our  home  his  bloody  hand. 
Well  that  forest-ranger  saw, 

That  the  burthen  and  the  curse 
Of  the  white  man's  cruel  law 

Rested  also  upon  us. 

Torn  apart,  and  driven  forth 

To  our  toiling  hard  and  long, 
Father  !   from  the  dust  of  earth 

Lift  we  still  our  grateful  song  ! 
Grateful,  that  in  bonds  we  share 

In  Thy  love  which  maketh  free  ; 
Joyful,  that  the  wrongs  we  bear, 

Draw  us  nearer,  Lord,  to  Thee  ! 

Grateful !  that  where'er  we  toil,  — 

By  Wachuset's  wooded  side, 
On  Nantucket's  sea-worn  isle, 

Or  by  wild  Neponset's  tide, — 
Still,  in  spirit,  we  are  near, 

And  our  evening  hymns,  which  rise 
Separate  and  discordant  here, 

Meet  and  mingle  in  the  skies  ! 

Let  the  scoffer  scorn  and  mock, 

Let  the  proud  and  evil  priest 
Rob  the  needy  of  his  flock, 

For  his  wine-cup  and  his  feast,  — 
Redden  not  Thy  bolts  in  store 

Through  the  blackness  of  Thy  skies  7 
For  the  sighing  of  the  poor 

Wilt  Thou  not,  at  length,  arise  ? 


EZEKIEL 


423 


Worn  and  wasted,  oh  !  how  long 

Shall  thy  trodden  poor  complain  ? 
In  Thy  name  they  bear  the  wrong, 

In  Thy  cause  the  bonds  of  pain  ! 
Melt  oppression's  heart  of  steel, 

Let  the  haughty  priesthood  see, 
And  their  blinded  followers  feel, 

That  in  us  they  mock  at  Thee  ! 

In  Thy  time,  O  Lord  of  hosts, 

Stretch  abroad  that  hand  to  save 
Which  of  old,  on  Egypt's  coasts, 

Smote  apart  the  Red  Sea's  wave  ! 
Lead  us  from  this  evil  land, 

From  the  spoiler  set  us  free, 
And  once  more  our  gathered  band, 

Heart  to  heart,  shall  worship  Thee  ! 


EZEKIEL 

Ezekiel  xxxiii.  30-33. 

THEY  hear  Thee  not,  O  God  !  nor  see  ; 

Beneath  Thy  rod  they  mock  at  Thee  ; 

The  princes  of  our  ancient  line 

Lie  drunken  with  Assyrian  wine  ; 

The  priests  around  Thy  altar  speak 

The  false  words  which  their  hearers  seek  ; 

And  hymns  which  Chaldea's  wanton  maids 

Have  sung  in  Dura's  idol-shades 

Are  with  the  Levites'  chant  ascending, 

With  Zion's  holiest  anthems  blending  ! 

On  Israel's  bleeding  bosom  set, 

The  heathen  heel  is  crushing  yet  ; 

The  towers  upon  our  holy  hill 

Echo  Chaldean  footsteps  still. 

Our     wasted    shrines,  —  who    weeps    for 

them  ? 

Who  mourneth  for  Jerusalem  ? 
Who  turneth  from  his  gains  away  ? 
Whose  knee  with  mine  is  bowed  to  pray  ? 
Who,  leaving  feast  and  purpling  cup, 
Takes  Zion's  lamentation  up  ? 

A  sad  and  thoughtful  youth,  I  went 
With  Israel's  early  banishment  ; 
And  where  the  sullen  Chebar  crept, 
The  ritual  of  my  fathers  kept. 
The  water  for  the  trench  I  drew, 
The  firstling  of  the  flock  I  slew, 
And,  standing  at  the  altar's  side, 
T  shared  the  Levites'  lingering  pride, 
That  still,  amidst  her  mocking  foes, 
The  smoke  of  Zion's  offering  rose. 


In  sudden  whirlwind,  cloud  and  flame, 
The  Spirit  of  the  Highest  came  ! 
Before  mine  eyes  a  vision  passed, 
A  glory  terrible  and  vast  ; 
With  dreadful  eyes  of  living  things, 
And  sounding  sweep  of  angel  wings, 
With  circling  light  and  sapphire  throne, 
And  flame-like  form  of  One  thereon, 
And  voice  of  that  dread  Likeness  sent 
Down  from  the  crystal  firmament ! 

The  burden  of  a  prophet's  power 

Fell  on  me  in  that  fearful  hour  ; 

From  off  unutterable  woes 

The  curtain  of  the  future  rose  ; 

I  saw  far  down  the  coming  time 

The  fiery  chastisement  of  crime  ; 

With  noise  of  mingling  hosts,  and  jar 

Of  falling  towers  and  shouts  of  war, 

I  saw  the  nations  rise  and  fall, 

Like  fire-gleams  on  my  tent's  white  wall. 

In  dream  and  trance,  I  saw  the  slain 
Of  Egypt  heaped  like  harvest  grain. 
I  saw  the  wall?  of  sea-born  Tyre 
Swept  over  by  the  spoiler's  fire  ; 
And  heard  the  low,  expiring  moan 
Of  Kdom  on  his  rocky  throne  ; 
And,  woe  is  me  !  the  wild  lament 
From  Zion's  desolation  sent  ; 
And  felt  within  my  heart  each  blow 
Which  laid  her  holy  places  low. 

In  bonds  and  sorrow,  day  by  day, 

Before  the  pictured  tile  I  lay  ; 

And  there,  as  in  a  mirror,  saw 

The  coming  of  Assyria's  war  ; 

Her  swarthy  lines  of  spearmen  pass 

Like  locusts  through  Bethhoron's  grass  ; 

I  saw  them  draw  their  stormy  hem 

Of  battle  round  Jerusalem  ; 

And,  listening,  heard  the  Hebrew  wail 

Blend  with  the  victor-trump  of  Baal  ! 

Who  trembled  at  my  warning  word  ? 
Who  owned  the  prophet  of  the  Lord  ? 
How  mocked  the  rude,  how  scoffed  tho 

vile, 

How  stung  the  Levites'  scornful  smile, 
As  o'er  my  spirit,  dark  and  slow, 
The  shadow  crept  of  Israel's  woe 
As  if  the  angel's  mournful  roll 
Had  left  its  record  on  my  soul, 
And  traced  in  lines  of  darkness  there 
The  picture  of  its  great  despair  ! 


424 


RELIGIOUS    POEMS 


Yet  ever  at  the  hour  I  feel 
My  lips  in  prophecy  unseal. 
Prince,  priest,  and  Levite  gather  near, 
And  Salem 's  daughters  haste  to  hear, 
On  Chebar's  waste  and  alien  shore, 
The  harp  of  Judah  swept  once  more. 
They  listen,  as  in  Babel's  throng 
The  Chaldeans  to  the  dancer's  song, 
Or  wild  sabbeka's  nightly  play, 
As  careless  and  as  vain  as  they. 


And  thus,  O  Prophet-bard  of  old, 
Hast  thou  thy  tale  of  sorrow  told  ! 
The  same  which  earth's  unwelcome  seers 
Have  felt  in  all  succeeding  years. 
Sport  of  the  changeful  multitude, 
Nor  calmly  heard  nor  understood, 
Their  song  has  seemed  a  trick  of  art, 
Their  warnings  but  the  actor's  part. 
With  bonds,  and  scorn,  and  evil  will, 
The  world  requites  its  prophets  still. 

So  was  it  when  the  Holy  One 
The  garments  of  the  flesh  put  on  ! 
Men  followed  where  the  Highest  led 
For  common  gifts  of  daily  bread, 
And  gross  of  ear,  of  vision  dim, 
Owned  not  the  Godlike  power  of  Him. 
Vain  as  a  dreamer's  words  to  them 
His  wail  above  Jerusalem, 
And  meaningless  the  watch  He  kept 
Through  which  His  weak  disciples  slept. 

Yet  shrink  not  thou,  whoe'er  thou  art, 
For  God's  great  purpose  set  apart, 
Before  whose  far-discerning  eyes, 
The  Future  as  the  Present  lies  ! 
Beyond  a  narrow-bounded  age 
Stretches  thy  prophet-heritage, 
Through  Heaven's  vast  spaces  angel-trod, 
And  through  the  eternal  years  of  God  ! 
Thy  audience,  worlds  !  —  all  things  to  be 
The  witness  of  the  Truth  in  thee  ! 


WHAT   THE  VOICE    SAID 

MADDENED  by  Earth's  wrong  and  evil, 
"  Lord  !  "  I  cried  in  sudden  ire, 

"  From  Thy  right  hand,  clothed  with  thun 
der, 
Shake  the  bolted  fire  1 


"  Love  is  lost,  and  Faith  is  dying  ; 

With  the  brute  the  man  is  sold  ; 
And  the  dropping  blood  of  labor 
Hardens  into  gold. 

"  Here  the  dying  wail  of  Famine, 

There  the  battle's  groan  of  pain  ; 
And,  in  silence,  smooth-faced  Mammon 
Reaping  men  like  grain. 

"'Where    is   God,  that   we    should   feai 

Him  ? ' 

Thus  the  earth-born  Titans  say  ; 
*  God  !  if  Thou  art  living,  hear  us  ! ' 
Thus  the  weak  ones  pray." 

"  Thou,  the  patient  Heaven  upbraiding," 
Spake  a  solemn  Voice  within  ; 

"  Weary  of  our  Lord's  forbearance, 
Art  thou  free  from  sin  ? 

"  Fearless  brow  to  Him  uplifting, 

Canst  thou  for  His  thunders  call, 
Knowing  that  to  guilt's  attraction 
Evermore  they  fall  ? 

"  Know'st  thou  not  all  germs  of  evil 

In  thy  heart  await  their  time  ? 
Not  thyself,  but  God's  restraining, 
Stays  their  growth  of  crime. 

"  Couldst  thou  boast,  O  child  of  weakness 

O'er  the  sons  of  wrong  and  strife, 
Were  their  strong  temptations  planted 
In  thy  path  of  life  ? 

"  Thou  hast  seen  two  streamlets  gushing 

From  one  fountain,  clear  and  free, 
But  by  widely  varying  channels 
Searching  for  the  sea. 

"  Glideth  one  through  greenest  valleys, 
Kissing  them  with  lips  still  sweet  ; 
One,  mad  roaring  down  the  mountains, 
Stagnates  at  their  feet. 

"  Is  it  choice  whereby  the  Parsee 

Kneels  before  his  mother's  fire  ? 
In  his  black  tent  did  the  Tartar 
Choose  his  wandering  sire  ? 

"  He  alone,  whose  hand  is  bounding 
Human  power  and  human  will, 
Looking  through  each  soul's  surrounding 
Knows  its  good  or  ill. 


THE  WIFE   OF   MANOAH   TO    HER   HUSBAND 


42S 


"  For  thyself,  while  wrong  and  sorrow 
Make  to  thee  their  strong  appeal, 
Coward  wert  thou  not  to  utter 
What  the  heart  must  feel. 

"  Earnest  words  must  needs  be  spoken 

When  the  warm  heart  bleeds  or  burns 
With  its  scorn  of  wrong,  or  pity 
For  the  wronged,  by  turns. 

"  But,  by  all  thy  nature's  weakness, 
Hidden  faults  and  follies  known, 
Be  thou,  in  rebuking  evil, 
Conscious  of  thine  own. 

•'•  Not  the  less  shall  stern-eyed  Duty 

To  thy  lips  her  trumpet  set, 
But  with  harsher  blasts  shall  mingle 
Wailings  of  regret." 

Cease  not,  Voice  of  holy  speaking, 
Teacher  sent  of  God,  be  near, 

Whispering  through  the  day's  cool  silence, 
Let  my  spirit  hear  ! 

So,  when  thoughts  of  evil-doers 
Waken  scorn,  or  hatred  move, 

Shall  a  mournful  fellow-feeling 
Temper  all  with  love. 


THE   ANGEL   OF    PATIENCE 

A  FREE  PARAPHRASE  OF  THE  GERMAN 

To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes, 
God's  meekest  Angel  gently  comes  : 
No  power  has  he  to  banish  pain, 
Or  give  us  back  our  lost  again  ; 
And  yet  in  tenderest  love,  our  dear 
And  Heavenly  Father  sends  him  here. 

There  's  quiet  in  that  Angel's  glance, 

There  's  rest  in  his  still  countenance  ! 

He  mocks  no  grief  with  idle  cheer, 

Nor  wounds  with  words  the  mourner's  ear  ; 

But  ills  and  woes  he  may  not  cure 

He  kindly  trains  us  to  endure. 

Angel  of  Patience  !  sent  to  calm 
Our  feverish  brows  with  cooling  palm  ; 
To  lay  the  storms  of  hope  and  fear, 
And  reconcile  life's  smile  and  tear  ; 
The  throbs  of  wounded  pride  to  still, 
And\  make  our  own  our  Father's  will \, 


O  thou  who  mournest  on  thy  way, 
With  longings  for  the  close  of  day  ; 
He  walks  with  thee,  that  Angel  kind, 
And  gently  whispers,  "  Be  resigned  : 
Bear  up,  bear  on,  the  end  shall  tell 
The  dear  Lord  ordereth  all  things  well ! 


THE  WIFE  OF  MANOAH  TO  HER 
HUSBAND 

AGAINST  the  sunset's  glowing  wall 
The  city  towers  rise  black  and  tall, 
Where  Zorah,  on  its  rocky  height, 
Stands  like  an  armed  man  in  the  light, 

Down  EshtaoFs  vales  of  ripened  grain 
Falls  like  a  cloud  the  night  amain, 
And  up  the  hillsides  climbing  slow 
The  barley  reapers  homeward  go. 

Look,  dearest  !  how  our  fair  child's  head 
The  sunset  light  hath  hallowed, 
Where  at  this  olive's  foot  he  lies, 
Uplooking  to  the  tranquil  skies. 

Oh,  while  beneath  the  fervent  heat 
Thy  sickle  swept  the  bearded  wheat, 
I  've  watched,  with  mingled  joy  and  dread, 
Our  child  upon  his  grassy  bed. 

Joy,  which  the  mothei  feels  alone 
Whose  morning  hope  like  mine  had  flown, 
When  to  her  bosom,  over-blessed, 
A  dearer  life  than  hers  is  pressed. 

Dread,  for  the  future  dark  and  still, 
Which  shapes  our  dear  one  to  its  will  ; 
Forever  in  his  large  calm  eyes, 
I  read  a  tale  of  sacrifice. 

The  same  foreboding  awe  I  felt 
When  at  the  altar's  side  we  knelt, 
And  he,  who  as  a  pilgrim  came, 
Rose,    winged   and    glorious,   through   the 
flame. 

I  slept  not,  though  the  wild  bees  made 
A  dreamlike  murmuring  in  the  shade, 
And  on  me  the  warm-fingered  hours 
Pressed  with  the  drowsy  smell  of  flowers 

Before  me,  in  a  vision,  rose 

The  hosts  of  Israel's  scornful  foes, — 


426 


RELIGIOUS    POEMS 


Rank  over  rank,  helm,  shield,  and  spear, 
Glittered  in  noon's  hot  atmosphere. 

I  heard  their  boast,  and  bitter  word, 
Their  mockery  of  the  Hebrew's  Lord, 
I  saw  their  hands  His  ark  assail, 
Their  feet  profane  His  holy  veil. 

No  angel  down  the  blue  space  spoke, 
No  thunder  from  the  still  sky  broke; 
But  in  their  midst,  in  power  and  awe, 
Like  God's  waked  wrath,  our  child  I  saw  ! 

A   child   no   more!  —  harsh -browed    and 

strong, 

He  towered  a  giant  in  the  throng, 
And  down  his  shoulders,  broad  and  bare, 
Swept  the  black  terror  of  his  hair. 

He  raised  his  arm  —  he  smote  amain  ; 
As  round  the  reaper  falls  the  grain, 
So  the  dark  host  around  him  fell, 
So  sank  the  foes  of  Israel ! 

Again  I  looked.     In  sunlight  shone 
The  towers  and  domes  of  Askelon; 
Priest,  warrior,  slave,  a  mighty  crowd 
Within  her  idol  temple  bowed. 

Yet  one  knelt  not;  stark,  gaunt,  and  blind, 
His  arms  the  massive  pillars  twined,  — 
An  eyeless  captive,  strong  with  hate, 
He  stood  there  like  an  evil  Fate. 

The  red   shrines  smoked,  — the    trumpets 

pealed: 

He  stooped,  —  the  giant  columns  reeled: 
Reeled  tower  and  fane,  sank  arch  and  wall, 
And  the  thick  dust-cloud  closed  o'er  all! 

Above  the  shriek,  the  crash,  the  groan 
Of  the  fallen  pride  of  Askelon, 
I  heard,  sheer  down  the  echoing  sky, 
A  voice  as  of  an  angel  cry,  — 

The  voice  of  him,  who  at  our  side 
Sat  through  the  golden  eventide; 
Of  him  who,  on  thy  altar's  blaze, 
Rose  lire-winged,  with  his  song  of  praise. 

"  Rejoice  o'er  Israel's  broken  chain, 
Gray  mother  of  the  mighty  slain! 
Rejoice!  "  it  cried,  "  he  vanquisheth! 
The  strong  in  life  is  strong  in  death! 


"  To  him  shall  Zorah's  daughters  raise 
Through    coming   years    their    hymns   of 

praise, 

And  gray  old  men  at  evening  tell 
Of  all  he  wrought  for  Israel. 

"  And  they  who  sing  and  they  who  hear 
Alike  shall  hold  thy  memory  dear, 
And  pour  their  blessings  on  thy  head, 

0  mother  of  the  mighty  dead!  " 

It  ceased  ;  and  though  a  sound  I  heard 
As  if  great  wings  the  still  air  stirred, 

1  only  saw  the  barley  sheaves 
And  hills  half  hid  by  olive  leaves. 

I  bowed  my  face,  in  awe  and  fear, 

On  the  dear  child  who  slumbered  near  ; 

"  With  me,  as  with  my  only  son, 

O  God,"  I  said,  «  Thy  will  be  done  !  " 


MY   SOUL  AND    I 

STAND  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark 

I  would  question  thee, 
Alone  in  the  shadow  drear  and  stark 

With  God  and  me  ! 

What,  my  soul,  was  thy  errand  here  ? 

Was  it  mirth  or  ease, 
Or  heaping  up  dust  from  year  to  year  ? 

"  Nay,  none  of  these  !  " 

Speak,  soul,  aright  in  His  holy  sight 

Whose  eye  looks  still 
And  steadily  on  thee  through  the  night: 

"  To  do  His  will  !  " 

What  hast  thou  done,  O  soul  of  mine, 

That  thou  tremblest  so  ? 
Hast  thou  wrought  His  task,  and  kept  the 
line 

He  bade  thee  go  ? 

What,  silent  all  !  art  sad  of  cheer  ? 

Art  fearful  now  ? 
When  God  seemed  far  and  men  were  near, 

How  brave  wert  thou  ! 

Aha  !  thou  tremblest  !  —  well  I  see 

Thou  'rt  craven  grown. 
Is  it  so  hard  with  God  and  me 

To  stand  alone  ? 


MY    SOUL   AND   I 


427 


Summon  thy  sunshine  bravery  back, 

0  wretched  sprite  ! 

Let  me  hear  thy  voice  through  this  deep 

and  black 
Abysmal  night. 

What   hast  thou   wrought  for    Right   and 

Truth, 

For  God  and  Man, 
From   the   golden    hours  of    bright -eyed 

youth 
To  life's  mid  span  ? 

Ah,  soul  of  mine,  thy  tones  I  hear, 

But  weak  and  low, 
Like  far  sad  murmurs  on  my  ear 

They  come  and  go. 

"  I  have  wrestled  stoutly  with  the  Wrong, 

And  borne  the  Right 
From  beneath  the  footfall  of  the  throng 

To  life  and  light. 

"  Wherever  Freedom  shivered  a  chain, 

God  speed,  quoth  I  ; 
To  Error  amidst  her  shouting  train 

1  gave  the  lie." 

Ah,  soul  of  mine  !  ah,  soul  of  mine  ! 

Thy  deeds  are  well  : 

Were  they  wrought  for  Truth's  sake  or  for 
thine  ? 

My  soul,  pray  tell. 

"  Of  all  the  work  my  hand  hath  wrought 

Beneath  the  sky, 
Save  a  place  in  kindly  human  thought, 

No  gain  have  I." 

Go  to,  go  to  !  for  thy  very  self 

Thy  deeds  were  done  : 
Thou  for  fame,  the  miser  for  peli, 

Your  end  is  one  ! 

And  where  art  thou  going,  soul  of  mine  ? 

Canst  see  the  end  ? 
And  whither  this  troubled  life  of  thine 

Evermore  doth  tend  ? 

What  daunts  thee  now  ?  what  shakes  thee 
so? 

My  sad  soul,  say. 
u  I  see  a  cloud  like  a  curtain  low 

Hang  o'er  my  way. 


"Whither  I  go  I  cannot  tell : 

That  cloud  hangs  black, 
High  as  the  heaven  and  deep  as  hell 

Across  my  track. 

"  I  see  its  shadow  coldly  enwrap 

The  souls  before. 
Sadly  they  enter  it,  step  by  step, 

To  return  no  more. 

"  They   shrink,  they  shudder,  dear   God ! 
they  kneel 

To  Thee  in  prayer. 
They  shut  their  eyes  on  the  cloud,  but  feel 

That  it  still  is  there. 

"In  vain  they  turn  from  the    dread   Be 
fore 

To  the  Known  and  Gone  ; 
For  while  gazing  behind  them  evermore 

Their  feet  glide  on. 

"  Yet,  at  times,  I  see  upon  sweet  pale  faces 

A  light  begin 
To  tremble,  as  if  from  holy  places 

And  shrines  within. 

"  And   at    times   methinks    their  cold  lips 
move 

With  hymn  and  prayer, 
As  if  somewhat  of  awe,  but  more  of  love 

And  hope  were  there. 

"I   call   on   the    souls  who  have  left  the 
light 

To  reveal  their  lot  ; 
I  bend  mine  ear  to  that  wall  of  night, 

And  they  answer  not. 

"  But  I  hear  around  me  sighs  of  pain 

And  the  cry  of  fear, 

And  a  sound  like  the  slow  sad  dropping  of 
rain, 

Each  drop  a  tear  ! 

"  Ah,  the  cloud  is  dark,  and  day  by  day 

I  am  moving  thither  : 
I  must  pass  beneath  it  on  my  way  — 

God  pity  me  !  —  whither  ?  " 

Ah,  soul  of  mine  !  so  brave  and  wise 

In  the  life-storm  loud, 
Fronting  so  calmly  all  human  eyes 

In  the  sunlit  crowd  ! 


428 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Now  standing  apart  with  God  and  me 

Thou  art  weakness  all, 
Gazing  vainly  after  the  things  to  be 

Through  Death's  dread  wall. 

But  never  for  this,  never  for  this 

Was  thy  being  lent  ; 
For  the  cravsn's  fear  is  but  selfishness, 

Like  his  merriment. 

Folly  and  Fear  are  sisters  twain  : 

One  closing  her  eyes, 
The  other  peopling  the  dark  inane 

With  spectral  lies. 

Know  well,  my  soul,  God's  hand  controls 

Whate'er  thou  fearest  ; 
Round  Him  in  calmest  music  rolls 

Whate'er  thou  nearest. 

What  to  thee  is  shadow,  to  Him  is  day, 

And  the  end  He  knoweth, 
And  not  on  a  blind  and  aimless  way 

The  spirit  goeth. 

Man  sees  no  future,  —  a  phantom  show 

Is  alone  before  him  ; 
Past  Time  is  dead,  and  the  grasses  grow, 

And  flowers  bloom  o'er  him. 

Nothing  before,  nothing  behind  ; 

The  steps  of  Faith 
Fall  on  the  seeming  void,  and  find 

The  rock  beneath. 

The  Present,  the  Present  is  all  thou  hast 

For  thy  sure  possessing  ; 
Like  the  patriarch's  angel  hold  it  fast 

Till  it  gives  its  blessing. 

Why   fear   the   night?   why   shrink   from 

Death, 

That  phantom  wan  ? 

There  is    nothing  in  heaven  or  earth  be 
neath 
Save  God  and  man. 

Peopling  the  shadows  we  turn  from  Him 

And  from  one  another  ; 
All  is  spectral  and  vague  and  dim 

S&,ve  God  and  our  brother  ! 

Like  warp  and  woof  all  destinies 
Are  woven  fast, 


Linked  in  sympathy  like  the  keys 
Of  an  organ  vast. 

Pluck  one  thread,  and  the  web  ye  mar  ; 

Break  but  one 
Of  a  thousand  keys,  and  the  paining  jar 

Through  all  will  run. 

O  restless  spirit  !  wherefore  strain 

Beyond  thy  sphere  ? 
Heaven  and  hell,  with  their  joy  and  pain, 

Are  now  anrl  here. 

Back  to  thyself  is  measured  well 

All  thou  hast  given  ; 
Thy  neighbor's  wrong  is  thy  present  hell, 

His  bliss,  thy  heaven. 

And  in  life,  in  death,  in  dark  and  light, 

All  are  in  God's  care  : 

Sound  the  black  abyss,  pierce  the  deep  of 
night, 

And  He  is  there  ! 

All  which  is  real  now  remaineth, 

And  fadeth  never  : 
The  hand  which  upholds  it  now  sustaineth 

The  soul  forever. 

Leaning  on  Him,  make  with  reverent  meek 
ness 

His  own  thy  will, 

And  with  strength  from  Him  shall  thy  ut 
ter  weakness 
Life's  task  fulfil  ; 

And  that  cloud  itself,  which  now  before 

thee 

Lies  dark  in  view, 
Shall  with  beams  of  light  from  the  inner 

glory 
Be  stricken  through. 

And  like  meadow  mist  through  autumn's 
dawn 

Uprolling  thin, 
Its  thickest  folds  when  about  thee  drawn 

Let  sunlight  in. 

Then   of   what   is   to   be,  and    of  what  is 
done, 

Why  queriest  thou  ? 
The  past  and  the  time  to  be  are  one. 

And  both  are  now  1 


WORSHIP 


425 


WORSHIP 

Pure  religion  and  undented  before  God  and  the  Fa 
ther  is  this,  To  visit  the  fatherless  and  widows  in  their 
affliction,  and  to  keep  himself  unspotted  from  the  world. 
— -James  i.  27. 

T;IE   Pagan's   myths  through   marble  lips 

are  spoken, 
And  ghosts  of  old  Beliefs  still  flit  and 

moan 
Round   fane    and    altar    overthrown    and 

broken, 

O'er  tree-grown  barrow  and  gray  ring  of 
stone. 

Blind  Faith  had  martyrs  in  those  old  high 

places, 
The  Syrian  hill  grove  and   the  Druid's 

wood, 
IVith    mothers    offering,    to    the    Fiend's 

embraces, 

Bone  of  their  bone,  and  blood  of  their 
own  blood. 

Red  altars,  kindling  through  that  night  of 

error, 
Smoked    with   warm  blood  beneath  the 

cruel  eye 

Of  lawless  Power  and  sanguinary  Terror, 
Throned  on  the  circle  of  a  pitiless  sky  ; 

Beneath  whose  baleful  shadow,  overcasting 
All   heaven  above,  and  blighting   earth 

below, 
The  scourge  grew  red,  the  lip  grew  pale 

with  fasting, 

And   man's   oblation  was  his   fear    and 
woe  ! 

Then  through    great  temples  swelled  the 

dismal  moaning 
Of     dirge  -  like    music    and    sepulchral 

prayer  ; 
Pale   wizard   priests,  o'er   occult   symbols 

droning, 

Swung  their  white   censers  in  the  bur 
dened  air  : 

As  if  the  pomp  of  rituals,  and  the  savor 
Of   gums  and  spices  could  the  Unseen 

One  please  ; 
&s  if  His  ear  could    bend,  with   childish 

favor, 
To  the  poor  flattery  of  the  organ  keys  ! 


Feet  red  from  war-fields  trod  the  churcn 

aisles  holy, 

With  trembling  reverence  :  and  the  op 
pressor  there, 
Kneeling    before    his   priest,    abased    and 

lowly, 

Crushed  human  hearts  beneath  his  knee 
of  prayer. 

Not  such  the  service  the  benignant  Father 
Requireth     at    His     earthly    children's 

hands  : 
Not   the   poor  offering  of  vain   rites,  but 

rather 
The  simple  duty  man  from  man  demands. 

For   Earth    He   asks   it :   the   full  joy  of 

heaven 

Knoweth  no   change    of    waning   or  in 
crease  ; 

The  great  heart  of  the  Infinite  beats  even, 
Untroubled  flows  the  river  of  His  peace. 

He  asks  no  taper  lights,  on  high  surround 
ing 

The  priestly  altar  and  the  saintly  grave, 
No  dolorous  chant  nor  organ  music  sound- 

ing> 

Nor   incense   clouding   up   the    twilight 
nave. 

For    he    whom    Jesus    loved    hath    truly 

spoken  : 
The  holier  worship  which  he  deigns  to 

bless 
Restores    the    lost,    and   binds   the   spirit 

broken, 
And  feeds  the  widow  and  the  fatherless  J 

Types  of  our  human  weakness  arid  our  sor 
row  ! 
Who  lives  unhaunted  by  his  loved  ones 

dead? 
Who,   with   vain  longing,  seeketh   not   to 

borrow 

From    stranger    eyes    the   home   lights 
which  have  fled  ? 

O    brother   man  I    fold   to   thy   heart   tLy 

brother  ; 
Where  pity  dwells,  the  peace  of  God  is 

there  ; 

To  worship  rightly  is  to  love  each  other, 
Each  smile  a  hymn,  each  kindly  deed  a 
prayer. 


43° 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Follow  with  reverent  steps  the  great  exam- 


pie 
Him 


Of  Him   whose  holy  work  was  "  doing 

good;" 
80  shall  the  wide  earth  seem  our  Father's 

temple, 
Each  loving  life  a  psalm  of  gratitude. 

Then  shall  all  shackles  fall  ;   the  stormy 

clangor 
Of  wild  war  music  o'er  the  earth  shall 

cease  ; 

Love  shall  tread  out  the  baleful  fire  of  anger, 
And  in  its  ashes  plant  the  tree  of  peace  ! 


THE   HOLY   LAND 

Paraphrased  from  the  lines  in  Lamartine's 
Adieu  to  Marseilles,  beginning1 

"  Je  n'ai  pas  navigu^  sur  1'ocean  de  sable." 

I  HAVE  not  felt,  o'er  seas  of  sand, 

The  rocking  of  the  desert  bark  ; 
Nor  laved  at  Hebron's  fount  my  hand, 

By  Hebron's  palm-trees  cool  and  dark; 
Nor  pitched  my  tent  at  even-fall, 

On  dust  where  Job  of  old  has  lain, 
Nor  dreamed  beneath  its  canvas  wall 

The  dream  of  Jacob  o'er  again. 

One  vast  world-page  remains  unread  ; 

How  shine  the  stars  in  Chaldea's  sky, 
How  sounds  the  reverent  pilgrim's  tread, 

How  beats  the  heart  with  God  so  nigh  ! 
How  round  gray  arch  and  column  lone 

The  spirit  of  the  old  time  broods, 
And  sighs  in  all  the  winds  that  moan 

Along  the  sandy  solitudes  ! 

In  thy  tall  cedars,  Lebanon, 

I  have  not  heard  the  nations'  cries, 
Nor  seen  thy  eagles  stooping  down 

Where  buried  Tyre  m  rum  ^es- 
The  Christian's  prayer  I  have  not  said 

In  Tadmor's  temples  of  decay, 
Nor  startled,  with  my  dreary  tread, 

The  waste  where  Memnon's  empire  lay. 

Kor  have  I,  from  thy  hallowed  tide, 
O  Jordan  !  heard  the  low  lament, 

Like  that  sad  wail  along  thy  side 

Which  Israel's  mournful  prophet  sent  J 

Kor  thrilled  within  that  grotto  lone 

Where,  deep  in  night,  the  Bard  of  Kings 


Felt  hands  of  fire  direct  his  own, 

And  sweep  for  God  the  conscious  strings, 

I  have  not  climbed  to  Olivet, 

Nor  laid  me  where  my  Saviour  lay, 
And  left  His  trace  of  tears  as  yet 

By  angel  eyes  unwept  away  ; 
Nor  watched,  at  midnight's  solemn  time, 

The  garden  where  His  prayer  and  groan, 
Wrung  by  His  sorrow  and  our  crime, 

Rose  to  One  listening  ear  alone. 

I  have  not  kissed  the  rock-hewn  grot 

Where  in  His  mother's  arms  He  lay, 
Nor  knelt  upon  the  sacred  spot 

Where   last    His  footsteps    pressed   the 

clay  ; 
Nor  looked  on  that  sad  mountain  head, 

Nor  smote  my  sinful  breast,  where  wide 
His  arms  to  fold  the  world  He  spread, 

And  bowed  His  head  to  bless  —  and  died  ! 


THE    REWARD 

WHO,   looking   backward   from   his   man 
hood's  prime, 
Sees  not  the  spectre  of  his  misspent  time  ? 

And,  through  the  shade 
Of  funeral  cypress  planted  thick  behind, 
Hears  no  reproachful  whisper  on  the  wind 

From  his  loved  dead  ? 

Who  bears  no  trace  of  passion's  evil  force  ? 
Who  shuns  thy  sting,  O  terrible  Remorse  ? 

Who  does  not  cast 
On    the    thronged   pages   of  his  memory's 

book, 
At  times,  a  sad  and  half-reluctant  look, 

Regretful  of  the  past  ? 

Alas  !  the  evil  which  we  fain  would  shun 
We  do,  and  leave  the  wished-for  good  un 
done  : 

Our  strength  to-day 

Is  but  to-morrow's  weakness,  prone  to  fall ; 
Poor,  blind,  unprofitable  servants  all 

Are  we  alway. 

Yet  who,  thus  looking  backward  o'er  his 

years, 
Feels   not   his    eyelids   wet   with   grateful 

tears, 

If  he  hath  been 
Permitted,  weak  and  sinful  as  he  was, 


INVOCATION 


432 


To  cheer  and  aid,  in  some  ennobling  cause, 
His  fellow-men  ? 

If  he  hath  hidden  the  outcast,  or  let  in 
A  ray  of  sunshine  to  the  cell  of  sin  ; 

If  he  hath  lent 
•Strength  to  the  weak,  and,  in  an  hour  of 

need, 
Over  the  suffering,  mindless  of  his  creed 

Or  home,  hath  beat  ; 

Jtle  has  not  lived  in  vain,  and  while  he  gives 
The  praise  to  Him,  in  whom  he  moves  and 

lives, 

With  thankful  heart  ; 

He  gazes  backward,  and  with  hope  before, 
Knowing  that   from  his   works  he  never 
more 
Can  henceforth  part. 


THE   WISH    OF   TO-DAY 

I  ASK  not  now  for  gold  to  gild 

With  mocking  shine  a  weary  frame  ; 

The  yearning  of  the  mind  is  stilled, 
I  ask  not  now  for  Fame. 

A  rose-cloud,  dimly  seen  above, 

Melting  in  heaven's  blue  depths  away  ; 

Oh,  sweet,  fond  dream  of  human  Love  ! 
For  thee  I  may  not  pray. 

But,  bowed  in  lowliness  of  mind, 

I  make  my  humble  wishes  known  ; 
I  only  ask  a  will  resigned, 

0  Father,  to  Thine  own  ! 

To-day,  beneath  Thy  chastening  eye 

1  crave  alone  for  peace  and  rest, 
Submissive  in  Thy  hand  to  lie, 

And  feel  that  it  is  best. 

A  marvel  seems  the  Universe, 
A  miracle  our  Life  and  Death  ; 

A  mystery  which  I  cannot  pierce, 
Around,  above,  beneath. 

In  vain  I  task  my  aching  brain, 
In  vain  the  sage's  thought  I  scan, 

I  only  feel  how  weak  and  vain, 
How  poor  and  blind,  is  man. 

And  now  my  spirit  sighs  for  home, 
And  longs  for  light  whereby  to  see, 


And,  like  a  weary  child,  would  come, 
O  Father,  unto  Thee  ! 

Though  oft,  like  letters  traced  on  sand, 
My  weak  resolves  have  passed  awav 

In  mercy  lend  Thy  helping  hand 
Unto  my  prayer  to-day  1 


ALL'S    WELL 

THE  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder,  siake 

Our  thirsty  souls  with  rain  ; 
The  blow  most  dreaded  falls  to  break 

From  off  our  limbs  a  chain  ; 
And  wrongs  of  man  to  man  but  make 

The  love  of  God  more  plain. 
As  through  the  shadowy  lens  of  even 
The  eye  looks  farthest  into  heaven 
On  gleams  of  star  and  depths  of  blue 
The  glaring  sunshine  never  knew  ! 


INVOCATION 

THROUGH  Thy  clear  spaces,  Lord,  of  old, 
Formless  and  void  the  dead  earth  rolled  ; 
Deaf  to  Thy  heaven's  sweet  music,  blind 
To  the  great  lights  which  o'er  it  shined  ; 
No  sound,  no  ray,  no  warmth,  no  breath,  — 
A  dumb  despair,  a  wandering  death. 

To  that  dark,  weltering  horror  came 
Thy  spirit,  like  a  subtle  flame,  — 
A  breath  of  life  electrical, 
Awakening  and  transforming  all, 
Till  beat  and  thrilled  in  every  part 
The  pulses  of  a  living  heart. 

Then  knew  their  bounds  the  land  and  sea  ; 
Then  smiled  the  bloom  of  mead  and  tree ; 
From  flower  to  moth,  from  beast  to  man, 
The  qtiick  creative  impulse  ran  ; 
And  earth,  with  life  from  thee  renewed, 
Was  in  thy  holy  eyesight  good. 

As  lost  and  void,  as  dark  and  cold 

And  formless  as  that  earth  of  old  ; 

A  wandering  waste  of  storm  and  night, 

Midst  spheres  of  song  and  realms  of  light  J 

A  blot  upon  thy  holy  sky, 

Untouched,  unwarmed  of  thee,  am  I. 

O  Thou  who  movest  on  the  deep 

Of  spirits,  wake  my  own  from  sleep  ! 


432 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Its  darkness  melt,  its  coldness  warm, 
The  lost  restore,  the  ill  transform, 
That  flower  and  fruit  henceforth  may  be 
Its  grateful  offering,  worthy  Thee. 


QUESTIONS  OF  LIFE 

And  the  angel  that  was  sent  unto  me,  whose  name 
was  Uriel,  gave  me  an  answer, 

And  said,  Thy  heart  hath  gone  too  far  in  this  world, 
and  thinkest  thou  to  comprehend  the  way  of  the  Most 
High  ? 

Then  said  I,  Yea,  my  Lord.  .  .  . 

Then  said  he  unto  me,  Go  thy  way,  weigh  me  the 
weight  of  the  fire  or  measure  me  the  blast  of  the  wind, 
or  call  me  again  the  hour  that  is  past.  —  2  Esdras  ch.  iv. 

A  BENDING  staff  I  would  not  break, 
A  feeble  faith  I  would  not  shake, 
Nor  even  rashly  pluck  away 
The  error  which  some  truth  may  stay, 
Whose  loss  might  leave  the  soul  without 
A  shield  against  the  shafts  of  doubt. 

And  yet,  at  times,  when  over  all 

A  darker  mystery  seems  to  fall, 

(May  God  forgive  the  child  of  dust, 

Who  seeks  to  know,  where   Faith   should 

trust  !) 

I  raise  the  questions,  old  and  dark, 
Of  U/dom's  tempted  patriarch, 
And,  speech-confounded,  build  again 
The  baffled  tower  of  Shinar's  plain. 

I  am  :  how  little  more  I  know  ! 
Whence  came  I  ?     Whither  do  I  go  ? 
A  centred  self,  which  feels  and  is  ; 
A  cry  between  the  silences  ; 
A  shadow-birth  of  clouds  at  strife 
With  sunshine  on  the  hills  of  life  ; 
A  shaft  from  Nature's  quiver  cast 
Into  the  Future  from  the  Past  ; 
Between  the  cradle  and  the  shroud, 
A  meteor's  flight  from  cloud  to  cloud. 

Thorough  the  vastness,  arching  all, 

I  see  the  great  stars  rise  and  fall, 

The  rounding  seasons  come  and  go, 

The  tided  oceans  ebb  and  flow  ; 

The  tokens  of  a  central  force, 

Whose  circles,  in  their  widening  course, 

O'erlap  and  move  the  universe  ; 

The  workings  of  the  law  whence  springs 

The  rhythmic  harmony  of  things, 

Which  shapes  in  earth  the  darkling  spar, 

And  orbs  in  heaven  the  morning  star. 


Of  all  I  see,  in  earth  and  sky,  — 
Star,  flower, beast, bird,  —  what  part  have  I? 
This  conscious  life,  —  is  it  the  same 
Which  thrills  the  universal  frame, 
Whereby  the  caverned  crystal  shoots, 
And  mounts  the  sap  from  forest  roots, 
Whereby  the  exiled  wood-bird  tells 
When  Spring  makes  green  her  native  dells  ct 
How  feels  the  stone  the  pang  of  birth, 
Which  brings  its  sparkling  prism  forth? 
The  forest-tree  the  throb  which  gives 
The  life-blood  to  its  new-born  leaves  ? 
Do  bird  and  blossom  feel,  like  me, 
Life's  many-folded  mystery,  — 
The  wonder  which  it  is  to  be  ? 
Or  stand  I  severed  and  distinct, 
From  Nature's  chain  of  life  unlinked  ? 
Allied  to  all,  yet  not  the  less 
Prisoned  in  separate  consciousness, 
Alone  o'erburdened  with  a  sense 
Of  life,  and  cause,  and  consequence  ? 

In  vain  to  me  the  Sphinx  propounds 
The  riddle  of  her  sights  and  sounds  ; 
Back  still  the  vaulted  mystery  gives 
The  echoed  question  it  receives. 
What  sings  the  brook  ?     What  oracle 
Is  in  the  pine-tree's  organ  swell  ? 
What  may  the  wind's  low  burden  be  ? 
The  meaning  of  the  moaning  sea  ? 
The  hieroglyphics  of  the  stars  ? 
Or  clouded  sunset's  crimson  bars  ? 
I  vainly  ask,  for  mocks  my  skill 
The  trick  of  Nature's  cipher  still. 

I  turn  from  Nature  unto  men, 

I  ask  the  stylus  and  the  pen  ; 

What  sang  the  bards  of  old  ?     What  mean 

The  prophets  of  the  Orient  ? 

The  rolls  of  buried  Egypt,  hid 

In  painted  tomb  and  pyramid  ? 

What  mean  Idiimea's  arrowy  lines, 

Or  dusk  Elora's  monstrous  signs  ? 

How  speaks  the  primal  thought  of  man 

From  the  grim  carvings  of  Copan  ? 

Where  rests  the  secret  ?     Where  the  keys 

Of  the  old  death-bolted  mysteries  ? 

Alas  !  the  dead  retain  their  trust  ; 

Dust  hath  no  answer  from  the  dust. 

The  great  enigma  still  unguessed, 

Unanswered  the  eternal  quest  ; 

I  gather  up  the  scattered  rays 

Of  wisdom  in  the  early  days, 

Faint  gleams  and  broken,  like  the  light 


FIRST-DAY   THOUGHTS 


433 


Of  meteors  in  a  northern  night, 
Betraying  to  the  darkling  earth 
The  unseen  sun  which  gave  them  birth  ; 
I  listen  to  the  sibyl's  chant, 
The  voice  of  priest  and  hierophant  ; 
I  know  what  Indian  Kreeshna  saith, 
And  what  of  life  and  what  of  death 
The  demon  taught  to  Socrates  ; 
And  what,  beneath  his  garden-trees 
Slow  pacing,  with  a  dream-like  tread, 
The  solemn-thoughted  Plato  said  ; 
Nor  lack  I  tokens,  great  or  small, 
Of  God's  clear  light  in  each  and  all, 
While  holding  with  more  dear  regard 
The  scroll  of  Hebrew  seer  and  bard, 
The  starry  pages  promise-lit 
With  Christ's  Evangel  over-writ, 
Thy  miracle  of  life  and  death, 
O  Holy  One  of  Nazareth  ! 

On  Aztec  ruins,  gray  and  lone, 
The  circling  serpent  coils  in  stone,  — 
Type  of  the  endless  and  unknown  ; 
Whereof  we  seek  the  clue  to  find, 
With  groping  fingers  of  the  blind  ! 
Forever  sought,  and  never  found, 
We  trace  that  serpent-symbol  round 
Our  resting-place,  our  starting  bound  ! 
Oh,  thriftlessness  of  dream  and  guess  ! 
Oh,  wisdom  which  is  foolishness  ! 
Why  idly  seek  from  outward  things 
The  answer  inward  silence  brings  ? 
Why  stretch  beyond  our  proper  sphere 
And  age,  for  that  which  lies  so  near  ? 
Why  climb  the  far-off  hills  with  pain, 
A  nearer  view  of  heaven  to  gain  ? 
In  lowliest  depths  of  bosky  dells 
The  hermit  Contemplation  dwells. 
A  fountain's  pine-hung  slope  his  seat, 
And  lotus-twined  his  silent  feet, 
Whence,    piercing   heaven,    with   screened 

sight, 

He  sees  at  noon  the  stars,  whose  light 
Shall  glorify  the  coming  night. 

Here  let  me  pause,  my  quest  forego  ; 
Enough  for  me  to  feel  and  know 
That  He  in  whom  the  cause  and  end, 
The  past  and  future,  meet  and  blend,  — 
Who,  girt  with  his  Immensities, 
Our  vast  and  star-hung  system  sees, 
Small  as  the  clustered  Pleiades,  — 
Moves  not  alone  the  heavenly  quires, 
But  waves  the  spring-time's  grassy  spires, 


Guards  not  archangel  feet  alone, 

But  deigns  to  guide  and  keep  my  own  ; 

Speaks  not  alone  the  words  of  fate 

Which  worlds  destroy,  and  worlds  create, 

But  whispers  in  my  spirit's  ear, 

In  tones  of  love,  or  warning  fear, 

A  language  none  beside  may  hear. 

To  Him,  from  wanderings  long  and  wild, 

I  come,  an  over-wearied  child, 

In  cool  and  shade  His  peace  to  find, 

Like  dew-fall  settling  on  my  mind. 

Assured  that  all  I  know  is  best, 

And  humbly  trusting  for  the  rest, 

I  turn  from  Fancy's  cloud-built  scheme, 

Dark  creed,  and  mournful  eastern  dream 

Of  power,  impersonal  and  cold, 

Controlling  all,  itself  controlled, 

Maker  and  slave  of  iron  laws, 

Alike  the  subject  and  the  cause  ; 

From  vain  philosophies,  that  try 

The  sevenfold  gates  of  mystery, 

And,  baffled  ever,  babble  still, 

Word-prodigal  of  fate  and  will  ; 

From  Nature,  and  her  mockery,  Art, 

And  book  and  speech  of  men  apart, 

To  the  still  witness  in  my  heart  ; 

With  reverence  waiting  to  behold 

His  Avatar  of  love  untold, 

The  Eternal  Beauty  new  and  old  ! 


FIRST-DAY   THOUGHTS 

IN  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once  again 
I  find  my  old  accustomed  place  among 
My  brethren,  where,  perchance,  no  hu 
man  tongue 
Shall   utter  words  ;   where  never  hymn 

is  sung, 
Nor  deep-toned  organ  blown,  nor  censer 

swung, 
Nor  dim  light  falling  through  the  pictured 

pane  ! 

There,  syllabled  by  silence,  let  me  hear 
The  still    small    voice  which    reached   the 

prophet's  ear  ; 

Read  in  my  heart  a  still  diviner  law 
Than  Israel's  leader  on  his  tables  saw  ! 
There  let  me  strive  with  each  besetting  sin, 
Recall   my    wandering   fancies,  and   re 
strain 

The  sore  disquiet  of  a  restless  brain  ,• 
And,  as  the  path  of  duty  is  made  plain, 


434 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


May   grace    be    given    that    I    may    walk 

therein, 

Not  like  the  hireling,  for  his  selfish  gain, 
With  backward  glances  and  reluctant  tread, 
Making  a  merit  of  his  coward  dread, 

But,  cheerful,   in   the   light   around  me 

thrown, 

Walking  as  one  to  pleasant  service  led  ; 
Doing  God's  will  as  if  it  were  my  own, 
Yet    trusting    not    in   mine,    but    in    His 
strength  alone  ! 


TRUST 

THE  same  old  baffling  questions  !     O  my 

friend, 

I  cannot  answer  them.     In  vain  I  send 
My  soul  into  the  dark,  where  never  burn 
The   lamps  of  science,  nor  the  natural 

light 

Of  Reason's  sun  and  stars  !    I  cannot  learn 
Their  great  and  solemn  meanings,  nor  dis 
cern 

The  awful  secrets  of  the  eyes  which  turn 
Evermore  on  us    through  the  day  and 

night 

With  silent  challenge  and  a  dumb  de 
mand, 

Proffering  the   riddles   of   the   dread   un 
known, 
Like  the  calm  Sphinxes,  with  their  eyes  of 

stone, 
Questioning  the  centuries  from  their  veils 

of  sand  ! 

I  have  no  answer  for  myself  or  thee, 
Save  that  I  learned   beside   my  mother's 

knee  ; 
"  All  is  of  God  that  is,  and  is  to  be  ; 

And  God  is  good."     Let  this  suffice  us 

still. 

Resting  in  childlike  trust  upon  His  will 
Who  moves  to  His  great  ends  unthwarted 
by  the  ill. 


TRINITAS 

AT  morn  I  prayed,  "  I  fain  would  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me." 

I  wandered  forth,  the  sun  and  air 
I  saw  bestowed  with  equal  care 
On  good  and  evil,  foul  and  fair. 


No  partial  favor  dropped  the  rain  ; 
Alike  the  righteous  and  profane 
Rejoiced  above  their  heading  grain. 

And  my  heart  murmured,  "  Is  it  meet 
That  blindfold  Nature  thus  should  treat 
With  equal  hand  the  tares  and  wheat  ? '; 

A  presence  melted  through  my  mood, — 
A  warmth,  a  light,  a  sense  of  good, 
Like  sunshine  through  a  winter  wood. 

I  saw  that  presence,  mailed  complete 
In  her  white  innocence,  pause  to  greet 
A  fallen  sister  of  the  street. 

Upon  her  bosom  snowy  pure 
The  lost  one  clung,  as  if  secure 
From  inward  guilt  or  outward  lure. 

"  Beware  !  "  I  said  ;  "  in  this  I  see 
No  gain  to  her,  but  loss  to  thee  : 
Who  touches  pitch  defiled  must  be." 

I  passed  the  haunts  of  shame  and  sin, 
And  a  voice  whispered,  "  Who  therein 
Shall  these   lost  souls   to  Heaven's  peace 
win  ? 

"WTho   there    shall   hope  and   health   dis 
pense, 

And  lift  the  ladder  up  from  thence 
Whose  rounds  are  prayers  of  penitence  ?  " 

I  said,  "  No  higher  life  they  know  ; 
These  earth-worms  love  to  have  it  so. 
Who  stoops  to  raise  them  sinks  as  low." 

That  night  with  painful  care  I  read 
What  Hippo's  saint  and  Calvin  said ; 
The  living  seeking  to  the  dead  ! 

In  vain  I  turned,  in  weary  quest, 
Old  pages,  where  (God  give  them  rest !) 
The    poor    creed  -  mongers    dreamed   and 
guessed. 

And  still  I  prayed,  "  Lord,  let  me  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Read  the  dark  riddle  unto  me  !  " 

Then   something   whispered,    "  Dost    thou 

pray 

For  what  thou  hast  ?     This  very  day 
The  Holy  Three  have  crossed  thy  way. 


"THE   ROCK"   IN   EL   GHOR 


435 


*'  Did  not  the  gifts  of  sun  and  air 

To  good  and  ill  alike  declare 

The  all-compassionate  Father's  care  ? 

"  In  the  white  soul  that  stooped  to  raise 

The  lost  one  from  her  evil  ways, 

Thou  saw'st  the  Christ,  whom  angels  praise  ! 

"  A  bodiless  Divinity, 

The  still  small  Voice  that  spake  to  thee 

Was  the  Holy  Spirit's  mystery  ! 

"  O  blind  of  sight,  of  faith  how  small  ! 
Father,  and  Son,  and  Holy  Call  ; 
This  day  thou  hast  denied  them  all ! 

"  Revealed  in  love  and  sacrifice, 
The  Holiest  passed  before  thine  eyes, 
One  and  the  same,  in  threefold  guise. 

"  The  equal  Father  in  rain  and  sun, 
His  Christ  in  the  good  to  evil  done, 
His  Voice  in  thy  soul  ;  —  and  the  Three  are 
One  ! " 

I  shut  my  grave  Aquinas  fast  ; 
The  monkish  gloss  of  ages  past, 
The  schoolman's  creed  aside  I  cast. 

And  my  heart  answered,  "Lord,  I  see 
How  Three  are  One,  and  One  is  Three  ; 
Thy  riddle  hath  been  read  to  me  !  " 


THE   SISTERS 

A   PICTURE   BY   BARRY 

THE  shade  for  me,  but  over  thee 
The  lingering  sunshine  still  ; 

As,  smiling,  to  the  silent  stream 
Comes  down  the  singing  rill. 

So  come  to  me,  my  little  one,  — 
My  years  with  thee  I  share, 

And  mingle  with  a  sister's  love 
A  mother's  tender  care. 

But  keep  the  smile  upon  thy  lip, 

The  trust  upon  thy  brow  ; 
Since  for  the  dear  one  God  hath  called 

We  have  an  angel  now. 

Our  mother  from  the  fields  of  heaven 
Shall  still  her  ear  incline  ; 


Nor  need  we  fear  her  human  love 
Is  less  for  love  divine. 

The  songs  are  sweet  they  sing  beneath 

The  trees  of  life  so  fair, 
But  sweetest  of  the  songs  of  heaven 

Shall  be  her  children's  prayer. 

Then,  darling,  rest  upon  rny  breast, 
And  teach  my  heart  to  lean 

With  thy  sweet  trust  upon  the  arm 
Which  folds  us  both  unseen  ! 


"THE   ROCK"   IN    EL   GHOR 

DEAD  Petra  in  her  hill-tomb  sleeps, 
Her  stones  of  emptiness  remain  ; 

Around  her  sculptured  mystery  sweeps 
The  lonely  waste  of  Edom's  plain. 

From  the  doomed  dwellers  in  the  cleft 
The  bow  of  vengeance  turns  not  back ; 

Of  all  her  myriads  none  are  left 
Along  the  Wady  Mousa's  track. 

Clear  in  the  hot  Arabian  day 

Her  arches  spring,  her  statues  climb  ; 
Unchanged,  the  graven  wonders  pay 

No  tribute  to  the  spoiler,  Time  ! 

Unchanged  the  awfid  lithograph 
Of  power  and  glory  undertrod  ; 

Of  nations  scattered  like  the  chaff 

Blown  from  the  threshing-floor  of  God 

Yet  shall  the  thoughtful  stranger  turn 
From  Petra's  gates  with  deeper  awe, 

To  mark  afar  the  burial  urn 
Of  Aaron  on  the  cliffs  of  Hor  ; 

And  where  upon  its  ancient  guard 

Thy  Rock,  El  Ghor,  is  standing  yet,  — 

Looks  from  its  turrets  desertward, 

And  keeps  the  watch  that  God  has  set 

The  same  as  when  in  thunders  loud 
It  heard  the  voice  of  God  to  man, 

As  when  it  saw  in  fire  and  cloud 
The  angels  walk  in  Israel's  van  ! 

Or  when  from  Ezion-Geber's  way 
It  saw  the  long  procession  file, 

And  heard  the  Hebrew  timbrels  play 
The  music  of  the  lordly  Nile  ; 


436 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Or  saw  the  tabernacle  pause, 

Cloud-bound,  by  Kadesh  Barnea's  wells, 
While  Moses  graved  the  sacred  laws, 

And  Aaron  swung  his  golden  bells. 

Rock  cf  the  desert,  prophet-sung  ! 

How  grew  its  shadowing  pile  at  length, 
A  symbol,  in  the  Hebrew  tongue, 

Of  God's  eternal  love  and  strength. 

On  lip  of  bard  and  scroll  of  seer, 

From  age  to  age  went  down  the  name, 

Until  the  Shiloh's  promised  year, 

And  Christ,  the  Rock  of  Ages,  came  ! 

The  path  of  life  we  walk  to-day 

Is  strange  as  that  the  Hebrews  trod  ; 

We  need  the  shadowing  rock,  as  they,  — 
We  need,  like  them,  the  guides  of  God. 

God  send  His  angels,  Cloud  and  Fire, 
To  lead  us  o'er  the  desert  sand  ! 

God  give  our  hearts  their  long  desire, 
His  shadow  in  a  weary  land  ! 


THE    OVER-HEART 

For  of  Him,  and  through  Him,  and  to  Him  are  all 
things  :  to  whom  be  glory  forever  !  —  Romans  xi.  36. 

ABOVE,  below,  in  sky  and  sod, 

In  leaf  and  spar,  in  star  and  man, 
Well  might  the  wise  Athenian  scan 

The  geometric  signs  of  God, 

The  measured  order  of  His  plan. 

And  India's  mystics  sang  aright, 
Of  the  One  Life  pervading  all,  — 
One  Being's  tidal  rise  and  fall 

In  soul  and  form,  in  sound  and  sight, — 
Eternal  outflow  and  recall. 

God  is  :   and  man  in  guilt  and  fear 
The  central  fact  of  Nature  owns  ; 
Kneels,  trembling,  by  his  altar  stones, 

And  darkly  dreams  the  ghastly  smear 
Of  blood  appeases  and  atones. 

Guilt  shapes  the  Terror  :  deep  within 
The  human  heart  the  secret  lies 
Of  all  the  hideous  deities  ; 

And,  painted  on  a  ground  of  sin, 
The  fabled  gods  of  torment  rise  ! 


And  what  is  He  ?     The  ripe  grain  nods, 
The  sweet  dews  fall,  the  sweet  flowers 

blow  ; 
But  darker  signs  His  presence  show  : 

The  earthquake  and  the  storm  are  God's, 
And  good  and  evil  interflow. 

O  hearts  of  love  !    O  souls  that  turn 
Like  sunflowers  to  the  pure  and  best ! 
To  you  the  truth  is  manifest  : 

For  they  the  mind  of  Christ  discern 
Who  lean  like  John  upon  His  breast ! 

In  him  of  whom  the  sibyl  told, 

For  whom  the  prophet's  harp  was  toned, 
Whose  need  the  sage  and  magian  owned, 

The  loving  heart  of  God  behold, 

The  hope  for  which  the  ages  groaned  ! 

Fade,  pomp  of  dreadful  imagery 
Wherewith  mankind  have  deified 
Their  hate,  and  selfishness,  and  pride  ! 

Let  the  scared  dreamer  wake  to  see 
The  Christ  of  Nazareth  at  his  sids  ! 

What  doth  that  holy  Guide  require  ? 
No  rite  of  pain,  nor  gift  of  blood, 
But  man  a  kindly  brotherhood, 

Looking,  where  duty  is  desire, 
To  Him,  the  beautiful  and  good. 

Gone  be  the  faithlessness  of  fear, 

And  let  the  pitying  heaven's  sweet  rain 
Wash  out  the  altar's  bloody  stain  ; 

The  law  of  Hatred  disappear, 
The  law  of  Love  alone  remain. 

How  fall  the  idols  false  and  grim  ! 
And  lo  !  their  hideous  wreck  above 
The  emblems  of  the  Lamb  and  Dove  ! 

Man  turns  from  God,  not  God  from  him; 
And  guilt,  in  suffering,  whispers  Love  ! 

The  world  sits  at  the  feet  of  Christ, 
Unknowing,  blind,  and  unconsoled  ; 
It  yet  shall  touch  His  garment's  fold, 

And  feel  the  heavenly  Alchemist 
Transform  its  very  dust  to  gold. 

The  theme  befitting  angel  tongues 
Beyond  a  mortal's  scope  has  grown. 
O  heart  of  mine  !  with  reverence  own 

The  fulness  which  to  it  belongs, 

And  trust  the  unknown  for  the  known 


THE   SHADOW   AND   THE  LIGHT 


437 


THE  SHADOW  AND  THE   LIGHT 

"And  I  sought,  whence  is  Evil :  I  set  before  the  eye 
of  my  spirit  the  whole  creation ;  whatsoever  we  see 
therein,  —  sea,  earth,  air,  stars,  trees,  moral  creatures, 

—  yea,  whatsoever  there  is  we  do  not  see,  —  angels  and 
spiritual  powers.     Where  is  evil,  and  whence  comes  it, 
since  God  the  Good   hath   created   all  things  ?     Why 
made  He  anything  at  all  of  evil,  and  not  rather  by  His 
Ahnightiness  cause  it  not  to  be?     These  thoughts  I 
turned  in  my  miserable  heart,  overcharged  witli  most 
gnawing  cares,"     "And,  admonished  to  return  to  my 
self,  I  entered  even  into  my  inmost  soul,  Thou   being 
my  guide,  and  beheld  even  beyond  my  soul  and  mind 
the   Light   unchangeable.     He   who  knows   the   Truth 
knows  what  that  Light  is,  and  he  that  knows  it  knows 
Eternity  !     O  Truth,  who  art  Eternity  !     Love,  who  art 
Truth  !     Eternity,  who  art  Love  !     And  I  beheld  that 
Thou  madest  all  things  good,  and  to  Thee  is  nothing 
whatsoever  evil.     From  the  angel  to  the  worm,  from 
the  first  motion  to  the  last,  Thou  settest  each  in  its 
place,  and  everything  is  good  in  its  kind.     Woe  is  me  ! 

—  how  high  art  Thou  in  the  highest,  how  deep  in  the 
deepest !  and  Thou  never  departest  from  us,  and  we 
scarcely  return  to  Thee."  —  AUGUSTINE'S  Soliloquies^ 
Book  VII. 

THE  fourteen  centuries  fall  away 
Between  us  and  the  Afric  saint, 
And  at  his  side  we  urge,  to-day, 
The  immemorial  quest  and  old  complaint. 

No  outward  sign  to  us  is  given,  — 

From  sea  or  earth  comes  no  reply  ; 

Hushed  as  the  warm  Numidian  heaven 

He  vainly  questioned  bends  our  frozen  sky. 

No  victory  comes  of  all  our  strife,  — 

From  all  we  grasp  the  meaning  slips  ; 
The  Sphinx  sits  at  the  gate  of  life, 
With  the  old  question  on  her  awful  lips. 

In  paths  unknown  we  hear  the  feet 
Of  fear  before,  and  guilt  behind  ; 
We  pluck  the  wayside  fruit,  and  eat 
Ashes  and  dust  beneath  its  golden  rind. 

From  age  to  age  descends  unchecked 

The  sad  bequest  of  sire  to  son, 
The  body's  taint,  the  mind's  defect  ; 
Through  every  web  of  life  the  dark  threads 


Oh,  why  and  whither  ?     God  knows  all ; 

I  only  know  that  He  is  good, 
And  that  whatever  may  befall 
Or  here  or  there,  must  be  the  best    that 
could. 

Between  the  dreadful  cherubim 
A  Father's  face  I  still  discern, 


As  Moses  looked  of  old  on  Him, 
And  saw  His  glory  into  goodness  turn ! 

For  He  is  merciful  as  just  ; 

And  so,  by  faith  correcting  sight, 
I  bow  before  His  will,  and  trust 
Howe'er   they    seem    He  doeth  all  things 
right ; 

And  dare  to  hope  that  He  will  make 

The  rugged  smooth,  the  doubtful  plain  ; 
His  mercy  never  quite  forsake  ; 
His  healing  visit  every  realm  of  pain  ; 

That  suffering  is  not  His  revenge 

Upon  His  creatures  weak  and  frail, 
Sent  on  a  pathway  new  and  strange 
With  feet  that  wander  and  with  eyes  that 
fail; 

That,  o'er  the  crucible  of  pain, 

Watches  the  tender  eye  of  Love 
The  slow  transmuting  of  the  chain 
Whose  links  are  iron  below  to  gold  above  1 

Ah  me  !  we  doubt  the  shining  skies, 

Seen  through  our  shadows  of  offence, 
And  drown  with  our  poor  childish  cries 
The  cradle-hymn  of  kindly  Providence. 

And  still  we  love  the  evil  cause, 

And  of  the  just  effect  complain : 
We  tread  upon  life's  broken  laws, 
And  murmur  at  our  self-inflicted  pain  ; 

We  turn  us  from  the  light,  and  find 

Our  spectral  shapes  before  us  thrown, 
As  they  who  leave  the  sun  behind 
Walk  in  the  shadows  of  themselves  alone. 

And  scarce  by  will  or  strength  of  ours 

We  set  our  faces  to  the  day  ; 
Weak,     wavering,    blind,     the     Eternal 

Powers 
Alone  can  turn  us  from  ourselves  away. 

Our  weakness  is  the  strength  of  sin, 

But  love  must  needs  be  stronger  far, 
Outreaching  all  and  gathering  in 
The  erring  spirit  and  the  wandering  star. 

A  Voice  grows  with  the  growing  years  ; 

Earth,  hushing  down  her  bitter  cry, 
Looks  upward  from  her  graves,  and  hears, 
"  The  Resurrection  and  the  Life  am  I." 


13* 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


O  Love  Divine  !  —  whose  constant  beam 

Shines  on  the  eyes  that  will  not  see, 
And  waits  to  bless  us,  while  we  dream 
Thou    leavest    us    because   we    turn  from 
thee  ! 

All  souls  that  struggle  and  aspire, 

All  hearts  of  prayer  by  thee  are  lit  ; 
And.  dim  or  clear,  thy  tongues  of  tire 
On  dusky  tribes  and  twilight  centuries  sit. 

Nor  bounds,  nor  clime,  nor  creed  thou 

know'st, 

Wide  as  our  need  thy  favors  fall  ; 
The  white  wings  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
Stoop,  seen  or  unseen,  o'er  the  heads  of  all. 

O  Beauty,  old  yet  ever  new  ! 

Eternal  Voice,  and  Inward  Word, 
The  Logos  of  the  Greek  and  Jew, 
The    old    sphere-music  which    the    Samian 
heard  ! 

Truth  which  the  sage  and  prophet  saw, 

Long  sought  without,  but  found  within, 
The  Law  of  Love  beyond  all  law, 
The    Life    o'erflooding    mortal   death  and 
sin  ! 

Shine  on  us  with  the  light  which  glowed 
Upon  the  trance-bound  shepherd's  way, 
Who  saw  the  Darkness  overflowed 
And  drowned  by  tides  of  everlasting  Day. 

Shine,  light  of  God  !  —  make  broad  thy 

scope 

To  all  who  sin  and  suffer  ;  more 
And  better  than  we  dare  to  hope 
With  Heaven's  compassion  make  our  long 
ings  poor  ! 


THE  CRY  OF  A  LOST  SOUL 

Lieutenant  Herndon's  Report  of  the  Exnlo- 
ration  of  the  Amazon  has  a  striking1  description 
of  the  peculiar  and  melancholy  notes  of  a  bird 
heard  by  nig'ht  on  the  shores  of  the  river.  The 
Indian  guides  called  it  "  The  Cry  of  a  Lost 
Soul  "  !  Among4  the  numerous  translations  of 
this  poem  is  one  by  the  Emperor  of  Brazil. 

IN  that  black  forest,  where,  when  day  is 

done, 

With  a  snake's  stillness  glides  the  Amazon 
Darkly  from  sunset  to  the  rising  sun, 


A  cry,  as  of  the  pained  heart  of  the  wood, 
The  long,  despairing  moan  of  solitude 
And  darkness  and  the  absence  of  all  good, 

Startles  the  traveller,  with  a  sound  so  drear, 

So  full  of  hopeless  agony  and  fear, 

His  heart  stands  still  and  listens  like  his 


The  guide,  as  if  he  heard  a  dead-bell  toll, 
Starts,  drops  his  oar  against  the  gunwale's 

thole, 
Crosses   himself,    and   whispers,    "  A   losl 

soul ! " 

"  No,  Senor,  not  a  bird.     I  know  it  well,  — 
It  is  the  pained  soul  of  some  infidel 
Or  cursed  heretic  that  cries  from  hell 

"  Poor   fool  !  with   hope  still  mocking  hit.- 

despair, 
He  wanders,  shrieking   on    the    midnight 

air 
For  human  pity  and  for  Christian  prayer. 

"  Saints  strike  him  dumb  !  Our  Holy  Mo 
ther  hath 

No  prayer  for  him  who,  sinning  unto  death. 

Burns  always  in  the  furnace  of  God'a 
wrath  ! " 

Thus  to  the  baptized  pagan's  cruel  lie, 
Lending  new  horror  to  that  mournful  cry, 
The  voyager  listens,  making  no  reply. 

Dim  burns  the  boat-lamp  ;  shadows  deepen 

round, 
From  giant  trees  with  snake-like  creepers 

wound, 
And  the  black  water  glides  without  a  sound. 

But  in  the  traveller's  heart  a  secret  sense 
Of  nature  plastic  to  benign  intents, 
And  an  eternal  good  in  Providence, 

Lifts   to  the    starry    calm   of  hea.ven    his 

eyes  ; 

And  lo  !  rebuking  all  earth's  ominous  cries, 
The    Cross    of    pardon    lights    the    tropic 

skies  ! 

"  Father  of  all  !  "  he  urges  his  strong  plea, 
"  Thou  lovest  all  :  Thy  erring  child  may 

be 
Lost  to  himself,  but  never  lost  to  Thee  1 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S  PRAYER 


439 


"  All  souls  are  Thine  ;  the  wings  of  morn 
ing  bear 

None  from  that  Presence  which  is  every 
where, 

Nor  hell  itself  can  hide,  for  Thou  art  there. 

"Through  sins  of  sense,  perversities  of  will, 
Through  doubt  and  pain,  through  guilt  and 

shame  and  ill, 
Thy  pitying  eye  is  on  Thy  creature  still. 

"  Wilt  thou  not  make,  Eternal  Source  and 

Goal  ! 

In  Thy  long  years,  life's  broken  circle  whole, 
And  change  to  praise  the  cry  of  a  lost  soul?  " 


ANDREW  RYKMAN'S    PRAYER 

ANDREW  RYKMAN  's  dead  and  gone  ; 

You  can  see  his  leaning  slate 
In  the  graveyard,  and  thereon 

Read  his  name  and  date. 

"  Trust  is  truer  than  our  fears," 

Runs  the  legend  through  the  moss, 

"  Gain  is  not  in  added  years, 
Nor  in  death  is  loss." 

Still  the  feet  that  thither  trod, 
All  the  friendly  eyes  are  dim  ; 

Only  Nature,  now,  and  God 
Have  a  care  for  him. 

There  the  dews  of  quiet  fall, 

Singing  birds  and  soft  winds  stray. 

Shall  the  tender  Heart  of  all 
Be  less  kind  than  they  ? 

What  he  was  and  what  he  is 
They  who  ask  may  haply  find, 

If  they  read  this  prayer  of  his 
Which  he  left  behind. 


Pardon,  Lord,  the  lips  that  dare 
Shape  in  words  a  mortal's  prayer  ! 
Prayer,  that,  when  my  day  is  done, 
And  I  see  its  setting  sun, 
Shorn  and  beamless,  cold  and  dim. 
Sink  beneath  the  horizon's  rim,  — 
When  this  ball  of  rock  and  clay 
Crumbles  from  my  feet  away, 
And  the  solid  shores  of  sense 


Melt  into  the  vague  immense, 
Father  !  I  may  come  to  Thee 
Even  with  the  beggar's  plea, 
As  the  poorest  of  Thy  poor, 
With  my  needs,  and  nothing  more. 

Not  as  one  who  seeks  his  home 

With  a  step  assured  I  come  ; 

Still  behind  the  tread  I  hear 

Of  my  life-companion,  Fear  ; 

Still  a  shadow  deep  and  vast 

From  my  westering  feet  is  cast, 

Wavering,  doubtful,  undefined, 

Never  shapen  nor  outlined  : 

From  myself  the  fear  has  grown, 

And  the  shadow  is  my  own. 

Yet,  O  Lord,  through  all  a  sense 

Of  Thy  tender  providence 

Stays  my  failing  heart  on  Thee, 

And  confirms  the  feeble  knee  ; 

And,  at  times,  my  worn  feet  press 

Spaces  of  cool  quietness, 

Lilied  whiteness  shone  upon 

Not  by  light  of  moon  or  sun. 

Hours  there  be  of  inmost  calm, 

Broken  but  by  grateful  psalm, 

When  I  love  Thee  more  than  fear  Thee, 

And  Thy  blessed  Christ  seems  near  me, 

With  forgiving  look,  as  when 

He  beheld  the  Magdalen. 

Well  I  know  that  all  things  move 

To  the  spheral  rhythm  of  love,  — 

That  to  Thee,  O  Lord  of  all  ! 

Nothing  can  of  chance  befall  : 

Child  and  seraph,  mote  and  star, 

Well  Thou  knowest  what  we  are  ! 

Through  Thy  vast  creative  plan 

Looking,  from  the  worm  to  man, 

There  is  pity  in  Thine  eyes, 

But  no  hatred  nor  surprise. 

Not  in  blind  caprice  of  will, 

Not  in  cunning  sleight  of  skill, 

Not  for  show  of  power,  was  wrought 

Nature's  marvel  in  Thy  thought. 

Never  careless  hand  and  vain 

Smites  these  chords  of  joy  and  pain  v( 

No  immortal  selfishness 

Plays  the  game  of  curse  and  bless  : 

Heaven  and  earth  are  witnesses 

That  Thy  glory  goodness  is. 

Not  for  sport  of  mind  and  force 

Hast  Thou  made  Thy  universe, 

But  as  atmosphere  and  zone 

Of  Thy  loving  heart  alone. 

Man,  who  walketh  in  a  show, 


44° 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Sees  before  him,  to  and  fro, 
Shadow  and  illusion  go  ; 
All  things  flow  and  fluctuate, 
Now  contract  and  now  dilate. 
In  the  welter  of  this  sea, 
Nothing  stable  is  but  Thee  ; 
In  this  whirl  of  swooning  trance, 
Thou  alone  art  permanence  ; 
All  without  Thee  only  seems, 
All  beside  is  choice  of  dreams. 
Never  yet  in  darkest  mood 
Doubted  I  that  Thou  wast  good, 
Nor  mistook  my  will  for  fate, 
Pain  of  sin  for  heavenly  hate,  — 
Never  dreamed  the  gates  of  pearl 
Rise  from  out  the  burning  marl, 
Or  that  good  can  only  live 
Of  the  bad  conservative, 
And  through  counterpoise  of  hell 
Heaven  alone  be  possible. 

For  myself  alone  I  doubt  ; 

All  is  well,  I  know,  without ; 

I  alone  the  beauty  mar, 

I  alone  the  music  jar. 

Yet,  with  hands  by  evil  stained, 

And  an  ear  by  discord  pained, 

I  am  groping  for  the  keys 

Of  the  heavenly  harmonies  ; 

Still  within  my  heart  I  bear 

Love  for  all  things  good  and  fair. 

Hands  of  want  or  souls  in  pain 

Have  not  sought  my  door  in  vain  ; 

I  have  kept  my  fealty  good 

To  the  human  brotherhood  ; 

Scarcely  have  I  asked  in  prayer 

That  which  others  might  not  share. 

I,  who  hear  with  secret  shame 

Praise  that  paineth  more  than  blame, 

Rich  alone  in  favors  lent, 

Virtuous  by  accident, 

Doubtful  where  I  fain  would  rest, 

Frailest  where  I  seem  the  best, 

Only  strong  for  lack  of  test,  — 

What  am  I,  that  I  should  press 

Special  pleas  of  selfishness, 

Coolly  mounting  into  heaven 

On  my  neighbor  unforgiven  ? 

Ne'er  to  me,  howe'er  disguised, 

Comes  a  saint  unrecognized  ; 

Never  fails  my  heart  to  greet 

Noble  deed  with  warmer  beat  ; 

Halt  and  maimed,  I  own  not  less 

All  the  grace  of  holiness  ; 

Nor,  through  shame  or  self-distrust, 


Less  I  love  the  pure  and  just. 
Lord,  forgive  these  words  of  mine  : 
What  have  I  that  is  not  Thine  ? 
Whatsoe'er  I  fain  would  boast 
Needs  Thy  pitying  pardon  most. 
Thou,  O  Elder  Brother  !  who 
In  Thy  flesh  our  trial  knew, 
Thou,  who  hast  been  touched  by  these 
Our  most  sad  infirmities, 
Thou  alone  the  gulf  canst  span 
In  the  dual  heart  of  man, 
And  between  the  soul  and  sense 
Reconcile  all  difference, 
Change  the  dream  of  me  and  mine 
For  the  truth  of  Thee  and  Thine, 
And,  through  chaos,  doubt,  and  strife, 
Interfuse  Thy  calm  of  life. 
Haply,  thus  by  Thee  renewed, 
In  Thy  borrowed  goodness  good, 
Some  sweet  morning  yet  in  God's 
Dim,  seonian  periods, 
Joyful  I  shall  wake  to  see 
Those  I  love  who  rest  in  Thee 
And  to  them  in  Thee  allied, 
Shall  my  soul  be  satisfied. 

Scarcely  Hope  hath  shaped  for  me 
What  the  future  life  may  be. 
Other  lips  may  well  be  bold  ; 
Like  the  publican  of  old, 
I  can  only  urge  the  plea, 
"  Lord,  be  merciful  to  me  !  " 
Nothing  of  desert  I  claim, 
Unto  me  belongeth  shame. 
Not  for  me  the  crowns  of  gold, 
Palms,  and  harpings  manifold  ; 
Not  for  erring  eye  and  feet 
Jasper  wall  and  golden  street. 
What  thou  wilt,  O  Father,  give  ! 
All  is  gain  that  I  receive. 
If  my  voice  I  may  not  raise 
In  the  elders'  song  of  praise, 
If  I  may  not,  sin-defiled, 
Claim  my  birthright  as  a  child, 
Suffer  it  that  I  to  Thee 
As  an  hired  servant  be  ; 
Let  the  lowliest  task  be  mine, 
Grateful,  so  the  work  be  Thine  ; 
Let  me  find  the  humblest  place 
In  the  shadow  of  Thy  grace  : 
Blest  to  me  were  any  spot 
Where  temptation  whispers  not. 
If  there  be  some  weaker  one, 
Give  me  strength  to  help  him  on  : 
If  a  blinder  soul  there  be, 


THE   ANSWER 


Let  me  guide  him  nearer  Thee. 
Make  my  mortal  dreams  come  true 
With  the  work  I  fain  would  do  ; 
Clothe  with  life  the  weak  intent, 
Let  me  be  the  thing  I  meant  ; 
Let  me  find  in  Thy  employ 
Peace  that  dearer  is  than  joy  ; 
Out  of  self  to  love  be  led 
And  to  heaven  acclimated, 
Until  all  things  sweet  and  good 
Seem  my  natural  habitude. 


So  we  read  the  prayer  of  him 
Who,  with  John  of  Labadie, 

Trod,  of  old,  the  oozy  rim 
Of  the  Zuyder  Zee. 

Thus  did  Andrew  Rykman  pray. 

Are  we  wiser,  better  grown, 
That  we  may  not,  in  our  day, 

Make  his  prayer  our  own  ? 


THE   ANSWER 

SPARE  me,  dread  angel  of  reproof, 
And  let  the  sunshine  weave  to-day 

Its  gold-threads  in  the  warp  and  woof 
Of  life  so  poor  and  gray. 

Spare  me  awhile  ;  the  flesh  is  weak. 

These  lingering  feet,  that  fain  would  stray 
Among  the  flowers,  shall  some  day  seek 

The  strait  and  narrow  way. 

Take  off  thy  ever- watchful  eye, 
The  awe  of  thy  rebuking  frown  ; 

The  dullest  slave  at  times  must  sigh 
To  fling  his  burdens  down  ; 

To  drop  his  galley's  straining  oar, 

And  press,  in  summer  warmth  and  calm, 

The  lap  of  some  enchanted  shore 
Of  blossom  and  of  balm. 

Grudge  not  my  life  its  hour  of  bloom, 
My  heart  its  taste  of  long  desire  ; 

This  day  be  mine  :  be  those  to  come 
As  duty  shall  require. 

The  deep  voice  answered  to  my  own, 
Smiting  my  selfish  prayers  away  ; 


"  To-morrow  is  with  God  alone, 
And  man  hath  but  to-day. 

"  Say  not,  thy  fond,  vain  heart  within, 
The  Father's  arm  shall  still  be  wide, 

When  from  these  pleasant  ways  of  sin 
Thou  turn'st  at  eventide. 

"  '  Cast  thyself  down,'  the  tempter  saith, 
'  And  angels  shall  thy  feet  upbear.' 

He  bids  thee  make  a  lie  of  faith, 
And  blasphemy  of  prayer. 

"  Though  God  be  good  and  free  be  heaven, 
No  force  divine  can  love  compel  ; 

And,  though  the  song  of  sins  forgiven 
May  sound  through  lowest  hell, 

"  The  sweet  persuasion  of  His  voice 

Respects  thy  sanctity  of  will. 
He  giveth  day  :  thou  hast  thy  choice 

To  walk  in  darkness  still  ; 

"  As  one  who,  turning  from  the  light, 
Watches  his  own  gray  shadow  fall, 

Doubting,  upon  his  path  of  night, 
If  there  be  day  at  all ! 

"  No  word  of  doom  may  shut  thee  out, 
No  wind  of  wrath  may  downward  whirl, 

No  swords  of  fire  keep  watch  about 
The  open  gates  of  pearl  ; 

"  A  tenderer  light  than  moon  or  sun, 
Than  song  of  earth  a  sweeter  hymn, 

May  shine  and  sound  forever  on, 
And  thou  be  deaf  and  dim. 

"  Forever  round  the  Mercy-seat 

The  guiding  lights  of  Love  shall  burn  ; 

But  what  if,  habit-bound,  thy  feet 
Shall  lack  the  will  to  turn  ? 

"  What  if  thine  eye  refuse  to  see, 

Thine   ear   of    Heaven's    free   welcome 
fail, 

And  thou  a  willing  captive  be, 
Thyself  thy  own  dark  jail  ? 

"  Oh,  doom  beyond  the  saddest  guess, 
As  the  long  years  of  God  unroll, 

To  make  thy  dreary  selfishness 
The  prison  of  a  soul  ! 


442 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


"  To  doubt  the  love  that  fain  would  break 
The  fetters  from  thy  self-bound  limb  ; 

And  dream  that  God  can  thee  forsake 
As  thou  fursakeut  Him  !  " 


THE    ETERNAL   GOODNESS 

0  FRIENDS  !  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod 
The  quiet  aisles  of  prayer, 

Glad  witness  to  your  zeal  for  God 
And  love  of  man  I  bear. 

1  trace  your  lines  of  argument  ; 

Your  logic  linked  and  strong 
I  weigh  as  one  who  dreads  dissent, 
And  fears  a  doubt  as  wrong. 

But  still  my  human  hands  are  weak 

To  hold  your  iron  creeds  : 
Against  the  words  ye  bid  me  speak 

My  heart  within  me  pleads. 

Who  fathoms  the  Eternal  Thought  ? 

Who  talks  of  scheme  and  plan  ? 
The  Lord  is  God  !     He  needeth  not 

The  poor  device  of  man. 

I  walk  with  bare,  hushed  feet  the  ground 
Ye  tread  with  boldness  shod  ; 

I  dare  not  fix  with  mete  and  bound 
The  love  and  power  of  God. 

Ye  praise  His  justice  ;  even  such 

His  pitying  love  I  deem  : 
Ye  seek  a  king  ;   I  fain  would  touch 

The  robe  that  hath  no  seam. 

Ye  see  the  curse  which  overbroods 

A  world  of  pain  and  loss  ; 
I  hear  our  Lord's  beatitudes 

And  prayer  upon  the  cross. 

More  than  your  schoolmen  teach,  within 

Myself,  alas  !  I  know  : 
Too  dark  ye  cannot  paint  the  sin, 

Too  small  the  merit  show. 

1  bow  my  forehead  to  the  dust, 

I  veil  mine  eyes  for  shame, 
And  urge,  in  trembling  self-distrust, 

A  prayer  without  a  claim. 

I  see  the  wrong  that  round  me  lies, 
I  feel  the  guilt  within  ; 


I  hear,  with  groan  and  travail-cries, 
The  world  confess  its  sin. 

Yet,  in  the  maddening  maze  of  things, 
And  tossed  by  storm  and  flood, 

To  one  fixed  trust  my  spirit  clings  ; 
1  know  that  God  is  good  ! 

Not  mine  to  look  where  cherubim 

And  seraphs  may  not  see, 
But  nothing  can  be  good  in  Him 

Which  evil  is  in  me. 

The  wrong  that  pains  my  soul  below 

I  dare  not  throne  above, 
I  know  not  of  His  hate,  —  I  know 

His  goodness  and  His  love. 

I  dimly  guess  from  blessings  known 

Of  greater  out  of  sight, 
And,  with  the  chastened  Psalmist,  own 

His  judgments  too  are  right. 

I  long  for  household  voices  gone, 
For  vanished  smiles  I  long, 

But  God  hath  led  my  dear  ones  on, 
And  He  can  do  no  wrong. 

I  know  not  what  the  future  hath 

Of  marvel  or  surprise, 
Assured  alone  that  life  and  death 

His  mercy  underlies. 

And  if  my  heart  and  flesh  are  weak 

To  bear  an  untried  pain, 
The  bruised  reed  He  will  not  break, 

But  strengthen  and  sustain. 

No  offering  of  my  own  I  have, 
Nor  works  my  faith  to  prove  ; 

I  can  but  give  the  gifts  He  gave, 
And  plead  His  love  for  love. 

And  so  beside  the  Silent  Sea 

I  wait  the  muffled  oar  ; 
No  harm  from  Him  can  come  to  me 

On  ocean  or  on  shore. 

I  know  not  where  His  islands  lift 
Their  f  ronded  palms  in  air  ; 

I  only  know  I  cannot  drift 
Beyond  His  love  and  care. 

O  brothers  !  if  my  faith  is  vain, 
If  hopes  like  these  betray, 


OUR   MASTER 


443 


Pray  for  me  that  my  feet  may  gain 
The  sure  and  safer  way. 

And  Thou,  O  Lord  !  by  whom  are  seen 

Thy  creatures  as  they  be, 
Forgive  me  if  too  close  I  lean 

My  human  heart  on  Thee  ! 


THE  COMMON  QUESTION 

BEHIND  us  at  our  evening  meal 

The  gray  bird  ate  his  fill, 
Swung  downward  by  a  single  claw, 

And  wiped  his  hooked  bill. 

He  shook  his  wings  and  crimson  tail, 

And  set  his  head  aslant, 
And,  in  his  sharp,  impatient  way, 

Asked,  «  What  does  Charlie  want  ?  " 

"  Fie,  silly  bird  !  "  I  answered,  "  tuck 
Your  head  beneath  your  wing, 

And  go  to  sleep  ; "  —  but  o'er  and  o'er 
He  asked  the  self-same  thing. 

Then,  smiling,  to  myself  I  said  : 

How  like  are  men  and  birds  ! 
We  all  are  saying  what  he  says, 

In  action  or  in  words. 

The  boy  with  whip  and  top  and  drum, 

The  girl  with  hoop  and  doll, 
And  men  with  lands  and  houses,  ask 

The  question  of  Poor  Poll. 

However  full,  with  something  more 
We  fain  the  bag  would  cram  ; 

We  sigh  above  our  crowded  nets 
For  fish  that  never  swam. 

No  bounty  of  indulgent  Heaven 

The  vague  desire  can  stay  ; 
Self-love  is  still  a  Tartar  mill 

For  grinding  prayers  alway. 

The  dear  God  hears  and  pities  all  ; 

He  knoweth  all  our  wants  ; 
And  what  we  blindly  ask  of  Him 

His  love  withholds  or  grants. 

And  so  I  sometimes  think  our  prayers 
Might  well  be  merged  in  one  ; 

And  nest  and  perch  and  hearth  and  church 
Repeat,  "  Thy  will  be  done." 


OUR  MASTER 

IMMORTAL  Love,  forever  full, 

Forever  flowing  free, 
Forever  shared,  forever  whole, 

A  never-ebbing  sea  ! 

Our  outward  lips  confess  the  name 

All  other  names  above  ; 
Love  only  knoweth  whence  it  came 

And  comprehendeth  love. 

Blow,  winds  of  God,  awake  and  blow 
The  mists  of  earth  away  ! 

Shine  out,  O  Light  Divine,  and  show- 
How  wide  and  far  we  stray  ! 

Hush  every  lip,  close  every  book, 
The  strife  of  tongues  forbear  ; 

Why  forward  reach,  or  backward  look, 
For  love  that  clasps  like  air  ? 

We  may  not  climb  the  heavenly  steeps 
To  bring  the  Lord  Christ  down  : 

In  vain  we  search  the  lowest  deeps, 
For  Him  no  depths  can  drown. 

Nor  holy  bread,  nor  blood  of  grape, 

The  lineaments  restore 
Of  Him  we  know  in  outward  shape 

And  in  the  flesh  no  more. 

He  cometh  not  a  king  to  reign  ; 

The  world's  long  hope  is  dim  > 
The  weary  centuries  watch  in  vain 

The  clouds  of  heaven  for  Him. 

Death  comes,  life  goes  ;  the  asking  eye 

And  ear  are  answer-less  ; 
The  grave  is  dumb,  the  hollow  sky 

Is  sad  with  silentness. 

The  letter  fails,  and  systems  fall, 

And  every  symbol  wanes  ; 
The  Spirit  over-brooding  all 

Eternal  Love  remains. 

And  not  for  signs  in  heaven  above 

Or  earth  below  they  look, 
Who  know  with  John  His  smile  of  Iov6| 

With  Peter  His  rebuke. 

In  joy  of  inward  peace,  or  sense 
Of  sorrow  over  sin. 


444 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


He  is  His  own  best  evidence, 
His  witness  is  within. 

No  fable  old,  nor  mythic  lore, 
Nor  dream  of  bards  and  seers, 

No  dead  fact  stranded  on  the  shore 
Of  the  oblivious  years  ;  — 

But  warm,  sweet,  tender,  even  yet 

A  present  help  is  He  ; 
And  faith  has  still  its  Olivet, 

And  love  its  Galilee. 

The  healing  of  His  seamless  dress 

Is  by  our  beds  of  pain  ; 
We  touch  Him  in  life's  throng  and  press, 

And  we  are  whole  again. 

Through  Him  the  first  fond  prayers  are  said 

Our  lips  of  childhood  frame, 
The  last  low  whispers  of  our  dead 

Are  burdened  with  His  name. 

Our  Lord  and  Master  of  us  all ! 

Whate'er  our  name  or  sign, 
We  own  Thy  sway,  we  hear  Thy  call, 

We  test  our  lives  by  Thine. 

Thou  judgest  us  ;  Thy  purity 

Doth  all  our  lusts  condemn  ; 
The  love  that  draws  us  nearer  Thee 

Is  hot  with  wrath  to  them. 

Our  thoughts  lie  open  to  Thy  sight  ; 

And,  naked  to  Thy  glance, 
Our  secret  sins  are  in  the  light 

Of  Thy  pure  countenance. 

Thy  healing  pains,  a  keen  distress 

Thy  tender  light  shines  in  ; 
Thy  sweetness  is  the  bitterness, 

Thy  grace  the  pang  of  sin. 

Yet,  weak  and  blinded  though  we  be, 

Thou  dost  our  service  own  ; 
We  bring  our  varying  gifts  to  Thee, 

And  Thou  rejectest  none. 

To  Thee  our  full  humanity, 

Its  joys  and  pains,  belong  ; 
The  wrong  of  man  to  man  on  Thee 

Inflicts  a  deeper  wrong. 

Who  hates,  hates  Thee,  who  loves  becomes 
Therein  to  Thee  allied  ; 


All  sweet  accords  of  hearts  and  homes 
In  Thee  are  multiplied. 

Deep  strike  Thy  roots,  O  heavenly  Vine, 

Within  our  earthly  sod, 
Most  human  and  yet  most  divine, 

The  flower  of  man  and  God  ! 

O  Love  !  O  Life  !     Our  faith  and 

Thy  presence  maketh  one. 
As  through  transfigured  clouds  of  white 

We  trace  the  noon-day  sun. 

So,  to  our  mortal  eyes  subdued, 
Flesh-veiled,  but  not  concealed, 

We  know  in  Thee  the  fatherhood 
And  heart  of  God  revealed. 

We  faintly  hear,  we  dimly  see, 
In  differing  phrase  we  pray  ; 

But,  dim  or  clear,  we  own  in  Thee 
The  Light,  the  Truth,  the  Way  ! 

The  homage  that  we  render  Thee 

Is  still  our  Father's  own  ; 
No  jealous  claim  or  rivalry 

Divides  the  Cross  and  Throne. 

To  do  Thy  will  is  more  than  praise, 
As  words  are  less  than  deeds, 

And  simple  trust  can  find  Thy  ways 
We  miss  with  chart  of  creeds. 

No  pride  of  self  Thy  service  hath, 

No  place  for  me  and  mine  ; 
Our  human  strength  is  weakness,  death 

Our  life,  apart  from  Thine. 

Apart  from  Thee  all  gain  is  loss, 

All  labor  vainly  done  ; 
The  solemn  shadow  of  Thy  Cross 

Is  better  than  the  sun. 

Alone,  O  Love  ineffable  ! 

Thy  saving  name  is  given  ; 
To  turn  aside  from  Thee  is  hell, 

To  walk  with  Thee  is  heaven  ! 

How  vain,  secure  in  all  Thou  art, 

Our  noisy  championship  ! 
The  sighing  of  the  contrite  heart 

Is  more  than  flattering  lip. 

Not  Thine  the  bigot's  partial  plea, 
Nor  Thine  the  zealot's  ban  ; 


THE   MEETING 


445 


Thou  well  canst  spare  a  love  of  Thee 
Which  ends  in  hate  of  man. 

Our  Friend,  our  Brother,  and  our  Lord, 
What  may  Thy  service  be  ?  — 

Nor  name,  nor  form,  nor  ritual  word, 
But  simply  following  Thee. 

We  bring  no  ghastly  holocaust, 

We  pile  no  graven  stone  ; 
He  serves  thee  best  who  loveth  most 

His  brothers  and  Thy  own. 

Thy  litanies,  sweet  offices 

Of  love  and  gratitude  ; 
Thy  sacramental  liturgies 

The  joy  of  doing  good. 

In  vain  shall  waves  of  incense  drift 

The  vaulted  nave  around, 
In  vain  the  minster  turret  lift 

Its  brazen  weights  of  sound. 

The  heart  must  ring  Thy  Christmas  bells, 

Thy  inward  altars  raise  ; 
Its  faith  and  hope  Thy  canticles, 

And  its  obedience  praise  ! 


THE    MEETING 

The  two  speakers  in  the  meeting-  referred 
fro  in  this  poem  were  Avis  Keene,  whose  very 
presence  was  a  benediction,  a  woman  lovely  in 
spirit  and  person,  whose  words  seemed  a  mes 
sage  of  love  and  tender  concern  to  her  hearers  ; 
and  Sibyl  Jones,  whose  inspired  eloquence  and 
rare  spirituality  impressed  all  who  knew  her. 
In  obedience  to  her  apprehended  duty  she 
made  visits  of  Christian  love  to  various  parts 
of  Europe,  and  to  the  West  Coast  of  Africa  and 
Palestine. 

THE  elder  folks  shook  hands  at  last, 

Down  seat  by  seat  the  signal  passed. 

To  simple  ways  like  ours  unused, 

Half  solemnized  and  half  amused, 

With  long-drawn  breath   and   shrug,  my 

guest 

His  sense  of  glad  relief  expressed. 
Outside,  the  hills  lay  warm  in  sun  ; 
The  cattle  in  the  meadow-run 
Stood  half-leg  deep  ;  a  single  bird 
The  green  repose  above  us  stirred. 
"  What  part  or  lot  have  you,"  he  said, 
u  In  these  dull  rites  of  drowsy-head  ? 


Is  silence  worship  ?     Seek  it  where 

It  soothes  with  dreams  the  summer  air, 

Not  in  this  close  and  rude-benched  hall, 

But  where  soft  lights  and  shadows  fall, 

And  all  the  slow,  sleep-walking  hours 

Glide  soundless  over  grass  and  flowers  ! 

From  time  and  place  and  form  apart, 

Its  holy  ground  the  human  heart, 

Nor  ritual-bound  nor  templeward 

Walks  the  free  spirit  of  the  Lord  ! 

Our  common  Master  did  not  pen 

His  followers  up  from  other  men  ; 

His  service  liberty  indeed, 

He  built  no  church,  He  framed  no  creed  ; 

But  while  the  saintly  Pharisee 

Made  broader  his  phylactery, 

As  from  the  synagogue  was  seen 

The  dusty-sandalled  Nazarene 

Through  ripening  cornfields  lead  the  way 

Upon  the  awful  Sabbath  day, 

His  sermons  were  the  healthful  talk 

That  shorter  made  the  mountain-walk, 

His  wayside  texts  were  flowers  and  birds, 

Where  mingled  with  His  gracious  words 

The  rustle  of  the  tamarisk-tree 

And  ripple-wash  of  Galilee." 

"  Thy  words  are  well,  O  friend,"  I  said  ; 

"  Unmeasured  and  unlimited, 

With  noiseless  slide  of  stone  to  stone, 

The  mystic  Church  of  God  has  grown. 

Invisible  and  silent  stands 

The  temple  never  made  with  hands, 

Unheard  the  voices  still  and  small 

Of  its  unseen  confessional. 

He  needs  no  special  place  of  prayer 

Whose  hearing  ear  is  everywhere  ; 

He  brings  not  back  the  childish  days 

That  ringed  the  earth  with  stones  of  praise^ 

Roofed  Karnak's  hall  of  gods,  and  laid 

The  plinths  of  Philse's  colonnade. 

Still  less  He  owns  the  selfish  good 

And  sickly  growth  of  solitude,  — 

The  worthless  grace  that,  out  of  sight, 

Flowers  in  the  desert  anchorite  ; 

Dissevered  from  the  suffering  whole, 

Love  hath  no  power  to  save  a  soul. 

Not  out  of  Self,  the  origin 

And  native  air  and  soil  of  sin, 

The  living  waters  spring  and  flow, 

The  trees  with  leaves  of  healing  grow. 

"  Dream  not,  O  friend,  because  I  seek 
This  quiet  shelter  twice  a  week, 
I  better  deem  its  pine-laid  floor 


446 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Than  breezy  hill  or  sea-sung  shore  ; 

But  nature  is  not  solitude  : 

She  crowds  us  with  her  thronging  wood  ; 

Her  many  hands  reach  out  to  us, 

Her  many  tongues  are  garrulous  ; 

Perpetual  riddles  of  surprise 

She  offers  to  our  ears  and  eyes  ; 

She  will  not  leave  our  senses  still, 

But  drags  them  captive  at  her  will  : 

And,  making  earth  too  great  for  heaven, 

She  hides  the  Giver  in  the  given. 

"  And  so  I  find  it  well  to  come 

For  deeper  rest  to  this  still  room, 

For  here  the  habit  of  the  soul 

Feels  less  the  outer  world's  control  ; 

The  strength  of  mutual  purpose  pleads 

More  earnestly  our  common  needs  ; 

And  from  the  silence  multiplied 

By  these  still  forms  on  either  side, 

The  world  that  time  and  sense  have  known 

Falls  off  and  leaves  us  God  alone. 

"  Yet  rarely  through  the  charmed  repose 
Unmixed  the  stream  of  motive  flows, 
A  flavor  of  its  many  springs, 
The  tints  of  earth  and  sky  it  brings  ; 
In  the  still  waters  needs  must  be 
Some  shade  of  human  sympathy  ; 
And  here,  in  its  accustomed  place, 
I  look  on  memory's  dearest  face  ; 
The  blind  by-sitter  guesseth  not 
What  shadow  haunts  that  vacant  spot  ; 
No  eyes  save  mine  alone  can  see 
The  love  wherewith  it  welcomes  me  ! 
And  still,  with  those  alone  my  kin, 
In  doubt  and  weakness,  want  and  sin, 
I  bow  my  head,  my  heart  I  bare, 
As  when  that  face  was  living  there, 
And  strive  (too  oft,  alas  !  in  vain) 
The  peace  of  simple  trust  to  gain, 
Fold  fancy's  restless  wings,  and  lay 
The  idols  of  my  heart  away. 

"  Welcome  the  silence  all  unbroken, 
Nor  less  the  words  of  fitness  spoken,  — 
Such  golden  words  as  hers  for  whom 
Our  autumn  flowers  have  just  made  room  ; 
Whose     hopeful    utterance    through    and 

through 

The  freshness  of  the  morning  blew  ; 
Who  loved  not  less  the  earth  that  light 
Fell  on  it  from  the  heavens  in  sight, 
But  saw  in  all  fair  forms  more  fair 
The  Fternal  beauty  mirrored  there. 


Whose  eighty  years  but  added  grace 

And  saintlier  meaning  to  her  face,  — 

The  look  of  one  who  bore  away 

Glad  tidings  fiom  the  hills  of  day, 

While  all  our  hearts  went  forth  to  meet 

The  coming  of  her  beautiful  feet  ! 

Or  haply  hers,  whose  pilgrim  tread 

Is  in  the  paths  where  Jesus  led  ; 

Who     dreams     her     childhood's     sabbatlr 

dream 

By  Jordan's  willow-shaded  stream, 
And,  of  the  hymns  of  hope  and  faith, 
Sung  by  the  monks  of  Nazareth, 
Hears  pious  echoes,  in  the  call 
To  prayer,  from  Moslem  minarets  fall, 
Repeating  where  His  works  were  wrought 
The  lesson  that  her  Master  taught, 
Of  whom  an  elder  Sibyl  gave, 
The  prophecies  of  Cumse's  cave  ! 

"  I  ask  no  organ's  soulless  breath 

To  drone  the  themes  of  life  and  death, 

No  altar  candle-lit  by  day, 

No  ornate  wordsman's  rhetoric-play, 

No  cool  philosophy  to  teach 

Its  bland  audacities  of  speech 

To  double-tasked  idolaters 

Themselves  their  gods  and  worshippers, 

No  pulpit  hammered  by  the  fist 

Of  loud-asserting  dogmatist, 

Who  borrows  for  the  Hand  of  love 

The  smoking  thunderbolts  of  Jove. 

I  know  how  well  the  fathers  taught, 

What  work  the  later  schoolmen  wrought ; 

I  reverence  old-time  faith  and  men, 

But  God  is  near  us  now  as  then  ; 

His  force  of  love  is  still  unspent, 

His  hate  of  sin  as  imminent  ; 

And  still  the  measure  of  our  needs 

Outgrows  the  cramping  bounds  of  creeds  ; 

The  manna  gathered  yesterday 

Already  savors  of  decay  ; 

Doubts  to  the  world's  child-heart  unknown 

Question  us  now  from  star  and  stone  ; 

Too  little  or  too  much  we  know, 

And  sight  is  swift  and  faith  is  slow  ; 

The  power  is  lost  to  self-deceive 

With  shallow  forms  of  make-believe. 

We  walk  at  high  noon,  and  the  bells 

Call  to  a  thousand  oracles, 

But  the  sound  deafens,  and  the  light 

Is  stronger  than  our  dazzled  sight  ; 

The  letters  of  the  sacred  Book 

Glimmer  and  swim  beneath  our  look ; 

Still  struggles  in  the  Age's  breas« 


THE   CLEAR   VISION 


447 


With  deepening  agony  of  quest 
The  old  entreaty  :  '  Art  thon  He, 
Or  look  we  for  the  Christ  to  be  ? ' 

"  God  should  be  most  where  man  is  least 

So,  where  is  neither  church  nor  priest, 

And  never  rag  of  form  or  creed 

To  clothe  the  nakedness  of  need,  — 

Where  farmer-folk  in  silence  meet,  — 

I  turn  my  bell-unsummoned  feet ; 

I  lay  the  critic's  glass  aside, 

I  tread  upon  my  lettered  pride, 

And,  lowest-seated,  testify 

To  the  oneness  of  humanity  ; 

Confess  the  universal  want, 

And  share  whatever  Heaven  may  grant. 

He  findeth  not  who  seeks  his  own, 

The  soul  is  lost  that 's  saved  alone. 

Not  on  one  favored  forehead  fell 

Of  old  the  fire-tongued  miracle, 

But  flamed  o'er  all  the  thronging  host 

The  baptism  of  the  Holy  Ghost  ; 

Heart  answers  heart  :  in  one  desire 

The  blending  lines  of  prayer  aspire  ; 

'  Where,  in  my  name,  meet  two  or  three/ 

Our  Lord  hath  said,  '  I  there  will  be  ! ' 

"  So  sometimes  comes  to  soul  and  sense 
The  feeling  which  is  evidence 
That  very  near  about  us  lies 
The  realm  of  spiritual  mysteries. 
The  sphere  of  the  supernal  powers 
Impinges  on  this  world  of  ours. 
The  low  and  dark  horizon  lifts, 
To  light  the  scenic  terror  shifts  ; 
The  breath  of  a  diviner  air 
Blows  down  the  answer  of  a  prayer  : 
That  all  our  sorrow,  pain,  and  doubt 
A  great  compassion  clasps  about, 
And  law  and  goodness,  love  and  force, 
Are  wedded  fast  beyond  divorce. 
Then  duty  leaves  to  love  its  task, 
The  beggar  Self  forgets  to  ask  ; 
With  smile  of  trust  and  folded  hands, 
The  passive  soul  in  waiting  stands 
To  feel,  as  flowers  the  sun  and  dew, 
The  One  true  Life  its  own  renew. 

"  So  to  the  calmly  gathered  thought 
The  innermost  of  truth  is  taught, 
The  mystery  dimly  understood, 
That  love  of  God  is  love  of  good, 
And,  chiefly,  its  divinest  trace 
In  Him  of  Nazareth's  holy  face  ; 


That  to  be  saved  is  only  this,  — 

Salvation  from  our  selfishness, 

From  move  than  elemental  fire, 

The  soul's  unsanctified  desire, 

From  sin  itself,  and  not  the  pain 

That  warns  us  of  its  chafing  chain  ; 

That  worship's  deeper  meaning  lies 

In  mercy,  and  not  sacrifice, 

Not  proud  humilities  of  sense 

And  posturing  of  penitence, 

But  love's  unforced  obedience  ; 

That  Book  and  Church  and  Day  are  given 

For     man,     not     God,  —  for     earth,     not 

heaven, — 

The  blessed  means  to  holiest  ends, 
Not  masters,  but  benignant  friends  ; 
That  the  dear  Christ  dwells  not  afar, 
The  king  of  some  remoter  star, 
Listening,  at  times,  with  flattered  ear 
To  homage  wrung  from  selfish  fear, 
But  here,  amidst  the  poor  and  blind, 
The  bound  and  suffering  of  our  kind, 
In  works  we  do,  in  prayers  we  pray, 
Life  of  our  life,  He  lives  to-day." 


THE    CLEAR    VISION 

I  DID  but  dream.     I  never  knew 

What  charms  our  sternest  season  wore. 

Was  never  yet  the  sky  so  blue, 
Was  never  earth  so  white  before. 

Till  now  I  never  saw  the  glow 

Of  sunset  on  yon  hills  of  snow, 

And  never  learned  the  bough's  designs 

Of  beauty  in  its  leafless  lines. 

Did  ever  such  a  morning  break 

As  that  my  eastern  windows  see  ? 
Did  ever  such  a  moonlight  take 

Weird  photographs  of  shrub  and  tree  ? 
Rang  ever  bells  so  wild  and  fleet 
The  music  of  the  winter  street  ? 
Was  ever  yet  a  sound  by  half 
So  merry  as  yon  school-boy's  laugh  ? 

O  Earth  !  with  gladness  overfraught, 

No  added  charm  thy  face  hath  found  ; 
Within  my  heart  the  change  is  wrought, 
My  footsteps  make  enchanted  ground. 
From  couch  of  pain  and  curtained  room 
Forth  to  thy  light  and  air  I  come, 
To  find  in  all  that  meets  my  eyes 
The  freshness  of  a  glad  surprise. 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Fair  seem  these  winter  days,  and  soon 

Shall  blow  the  warm  west- winds  of  spring, 
To  set  the  unbound  rills  in  tune 

And  hither  urge  the  bluebird's  wing. 
The  vales  shall  laugh  in  flowers,  the  woods 
Grow  misty  green  with  leafing  buds, 
And  violets  and  wind-flowers  sway 
Against  the  throbbing  heart  of  May. 

Break  forth,  rny  lips,  in  praise,  and  own 

The  wiser  love  severely  kind  ; 
Since,  richer  for  its  chastening  grown, 

I  see,  whereas  I  once  was  blind. 
The  world,  O  Father  !  hath  not  wronged 
With  loss  the  life  by  Thee  prolonged  ; 
But  still,  with  every  added  year, 
More  beautiful  Thy  works  appear  ! 

As  Thou  hast  made  thy  world  without, 

Make  Thou  more  fair  my  world  within  ; 
Shine  through  its  lingering  clouds  of  doubt ; 

Rebuke  its  haunting  shapes  of  sin ; 
Fill,  brief  or  long,  my  granted  span 
Of  life  with  love  to  thee  and  man  ; 
Strike  when  thou  wilt  the  hour  of  rest, 
But  let  my  last  days  be  my  best  ! 


DIVINE  COMPASSION 

LONG  since,  a  dream  of  heaven  I  had, 
And  still  the  vision  haunts  me  oft  ; 

I  see  the  saints  in  white  robes  clad, 
The  martyrs  with  their  palms  aloft  ; 

But  hearing  still,  in  middle  song, 
The  ceaseless  dissonance  of  wrong  ; 

And   shrinking,   with  hid   faces,   from   the 
strain 

Of  sad,   beseeching  eyes,  full  of  remorse 
and  pain. 

The  glad  song  falters  to  a  wail, 
The  harping  sinks  to  low  lament  ; 

Before  the  still  unlifted  veil 

I  see  the  crowned  foreheads  bent, 

Making  more  sweet  the  heavenly  air 
With  breathings  of  unselfish  prayer  ; 

And  a  Voice  saith  :  "  O  Pity  which  is  pain, 

O  Love  that  weeps,  fill  up  my  sufferings 
which  remain  ! 

"  Shall  souls  redeemed  by  me  refuse 
To  share  my  sorrow  in  their  turn  ? 

Or,  sin-forgiven,  my  gift  abuse 
Of  peace  with  selfish  unconcern  ? 


Has  saintly  ease  no  pitying  care  ? 

Has  faith  no  work,  and  love  no  prayer  ? 

While  sin  remains,  and  souls  in  darkness 
dwell, 

Can  heaven  itself  be  heaven,  and  look  un 
moved  on  hell  ?  " 

Then  through  the  Gates  of  Pain,  I  dream, 
A  wind  of  heaven  blows  coolly  in  ; 

Fainter  the  awful  discords  seem, 

The  smoke  of  torment  grows  more  thin, 

Tears  quench  the  burning  soil,  and  thence 
Spring  sweet,  pale  flowers  of  penitence  : 

And  through  the  dreary  realm  of  man's  de 
spair, 

Star-crowned  an  angel  walks,  and  lo  !  God's 
hope  is  there  ! 

Is  it  a  dream  ?     Is  heaven  so  high 
That  pity  cannot  breathe  its  air  ? 

Its  happy  eyes  forever  dry, 

Its  holy  lips  without  a  prayer  ! 

My  God  !  my  God  !  if  thither  led 
By  Thy  free  grace  unmerited, 

No  crown  nor  palm  be  mine,  but  let  me 
keep 

A  heart  that  still  can  feel,  and  eyes  that  still 
can  weep. 


THE  PRAYER-SEEKER 

ALONG  the  aisle  where  prayer  was  made, 
A  woman,  all  in  black  arrayed, 
Close- veiled,  between  the  kneeling  host, 
With  gliding  motion  of  a  ghost, 
Passed  to  the  desk,  and  laid  thereon 
A  scroll  which  bore  these  words  alone, 
Pray  for  me  I 

Back  from  the  place  of  worshipping 
She  glided  like  a  guilty  thing  : 
The  rustle  of  her  draperies,  stirred 
By  hurrying  feet,  alone  was  heard  ; 
While,  full  of  awe,  the  preacher  read, 
As  out  into  the  dark  she  sped  : 
Pray  for  me  ! 

Back  to  the  night  from  whence  she  came. 
To  unimagined  grief  or  shame  ! 
Across  the  threshold  of  that  door 
None  knew  the  burden  that  she  bore  : 
Alone  she  left  the  written  scroll, 
The  legend  of  a  troubled  soul,  — 
Pray  for  me! 


THE   BREWING   OF    SOMA 


449 


Glide  on,  poor  ghost  of  woe  or  sin  ! 
Thou  leav'st  a  common  need  within  ; 
Each  bears,  like  thee,some  nameless  weight, 
Some  misery  inarticulate, 
Some  secret  sin,  some  shrouded  dread, 
Some  household  sorrow  all  unsaid. 
Pray  for  us  ! 

Pass  on  \     The  type  of  all  thou  art, 
Sad  witness  to  the  common  heart ! 
With  face  in  veil  and  seal  on  lip, 
In  mute  and  strange  companionship, 
Like  thee  we  wander  to  and  fro, 
Dumbly  imploring  as  we  go  : 
Pray  for  us  ! 

Ah,  who  shall  pray,  since  he  who  pleads 
Our  want  perchance  hath  greater  needs  ? 
Yet  they  who  make  their  loss  the  gain 
Of  others  shall  not  ask  in  vain, 
And  Heaven  bends  low  to  hear  the  prayer 
Of  love  from  lips  of  self-despair  : 
Pray  for  us  ! 

In  vain  remorse  and  fear  and  hate 
Beat  with  bruised  hands  against  a  fate 
Whose  walls  of  iron  only  move 
And  open  to  the  touch  of  love. 
He  only  feels  his  burdens  fall 
Who,  taught  by  suffering,  pities  all. 
Pray  for  us  ! 

He  prayeth  best  who  leaves  unguessed 
The  mystery  of  another's  breast. 
Why  cheeks  grow  pale,  why  eyes  o'erflow, 
Or  heads  are  white,  thou  neecl'st  not  know. 
Enough  to  note  by  many  a  sign 
That  every  heart  hath  needs  like  thine. 
Pray  for  us  ! 

THE    BREWING    OF    SOMA 

"  These  libations  mixed  with  milk  have  been  prepared 
for  Indra  :  offer  Soma  to  the  drinker  of  Soma."  —  Va- 
shistdi  translated  by  MAX  MULLER. 

THE  fagots  blazed,  the  caldron's  smoke 
Up  through  the  green  wood  curled  ; 
"  Bring  honey  from  the  hollow  oak, 
Bring  milky  sap,"  the  brewers  spoke, 
In  the  childhood  of  the  world. 

And  brewed  they  well  or  brewed  they  ill, 

The  priests  thrust  in  their  rods, 
virst  tasted,  and  then  drank  their  fill, 


And  shouted,  with  one  voice  and  will, 
"  Behold  the  drink  of  gods  !  " 

They  drank,  and  lo  !  in  heart  and  brain 

A  new,  glad  life  began  ; 
The  gray  of  hair  grew  young  again, 
The  sick  man  laughed  away  his  pain, 

The  cripple  leaped  and  ran. 

"  Drink,  mortals,  what  the  gods  have  sent. 

Forget  your  long  annoy." 
So  sang  the  priests.     From  tent  to  tent 
The  Soma's  sacred  madness  went, 

A  storm  of  drunken  joy. 

Then  knew  each  rapt  inebriate 

A  winged  and  glorious  birth, 
Soared  upward,  with  strange  joy  elate, 
Beat,  with  dazed  head,  Varuna's  gate, 

And,  sobered,  sank  to  earth. 

The  land  with  Soma's  praises  rang  ; 

On  Gihon's  banks  of  shade 
Its  hymns  the  dusky  maidens  sang  ; 
In  joy  of  life  or  mortal  pang 

All  men  to  Soma  prayed. 

The  morning  twilight  of  the  race 

Sends  down  these  matin  psalms  ; 
And  still  with  wondering  eyes  we  trace 
The  simple  prayers  to  Soma's  grace, 
That  Vedic  verse  embalms. 

As  in  that  child-world's  early  year, 

Each  after  age  has  striven 
By  music,  incense,  vigils  drear, 
And  trance,  to  bring  the  skies  more  near; 

Or  lift  men  up  to  heaven  ! 

Some  fever  of  the  blood  and  brain. 

Some  self-exalting  spell, 
The  scourger's  keen  delight  of  pain, 
The  Dervish  dance,  the  Orphic  strain, 

The  wild-haired  Bacchant's  yell,  — 

The  desert's  hair-grown  hermit  sunk 

The  saner  brute  below  ; 
The  naked  Santon,  hashish-drunk, 
The  cloister  madness  of  the  monk, 

The  fakir's  torture-show  ! 

And  yet  the  past  comes  round  again, 

And  new  doth  old  fulfil  ; 
In  sensual  transports  wild  as  vain 


45° 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


We  brew  in  many  a  Christian  fane 
The  heathen  ISonia  still  ! 

Dear  Lord  and  Father  of  mankind, 

Forgive  our  foolish  ways  ! 
Reclothe  us  in  our  rightful  mind, 
In  purer  lives  Thy  service  find, 

In  deeper  reverence,  praise. 

In  simple  trust  like  theirs  who  heard 

Beside  the  Syrian  sea 
The  gracious  calling  of  the  Lord, 
Let  us,  like  them,  without  a  word, 

Rise  up  and  follow  Thee. 

O  Sabbath  rest  by  Galilee  ! 

O  calm  of  hills  above, 
Where  Jesus  knelt  to  share  with  Thee 
The  silence  of  eternity 

Interpreted  by  love  ! 

With  that  deep  hush  subduing  all 

Our  words  and  works  that  drown 
The  tender  whisper  of  Thy  call, 
As  noiseless  let  Thy  blessing  fall 
As  fell  Thy  manna  down. 

Drop  Thy  still  dews  of  quietness, 

Till  all  our  strivings  cease  ; 
Take  from  our  souls  the  strain  and  stress, 
And  let  our  ordered  lives  confess 

The  beauty  of  Thy  peace. 

Breathe  through  the  heats  of  our  desire 

Thy  coolness  and  Thy  balm  ; 
Let  sense  be  dumb,  let  flesh  retire  ; 
Speak  through  the  earthquake,   wind,  and 
fire, 

O  still,  small  voice  of  calm  ! 


A    WOMAN 

OH,  dwarfed  and  wronged,  and  stained  with 

ill, 

Behold  !  thou  art  a  woman  still  ! 
And,  by  that  sacred  name  and  dear, 
I  bid  thy  better  self  appear. 
Still,  through  thy  foul  disguise,  I  see 
The  rudi mental  purity, 
That,  spite  of  change  and  loss,  makes  good 
Thy  birthright-claim  of  womanhood  ; 
An  inward  loathing,  deep,  intense  ; 
A  shame  that  is  half  innocence. 
Cast  off  the  grave-clothes  of  thy  sin  ! 


Rise  from  the  dust  thou  liest  in, 
As  Mary  rose  at  Jesus'  word, 
Redeemed  and  white  before  the  Lord  t 
Reclaim  thy  lost  soul  !     In  His  name, 
Rise  up,  and  break  thy  bonds  of  shame. 
Art  weak  ?     He  's  strong.     Art   fearful  ? 

Hear 

The  world's  O'ercomer  :  "  Be  of  cheer  ! " 
What  lip  shall  judge  when  He  approves  ? 
Who  dare  to  scorn  the  child  He  loves  ? 


THE   PRAYER   OF   AGASSIZ 

The  island  of  Penikese  in  Buzzard's  Bay  was 
given  by  Mr.  John  Anderson  to  Agassiz  for 
the  uses  of  a  summer  school  of  natural  history. 
A  large  barn  was  cleared  and  improvised  as  a 
lecture-room.  Here,  on  the  first  morning1  of 
the  school,  all  the  company  was  gathered 
"  Agassiz  had  arranged  no  programme  of  ex 
ercises,"  says  Mrs.  Agassiz,  in  Louis  Agassiz ; 
his  Life  and  Correspondence,  ''trusting  to  the 
interest  of  the  occasion  to  suggest  what  might 
best  be  said  or  done.  But,  as  he  looked  upon 
his  pupils  gathered  there  to  study  nature  with 
him,  by  an  impulse  as  natural  as  it  was  un 
premeditated,  he  called  upon  them  to  join  in 
silently  asking  God's  blessing  on  their  work 
together.  The  pause  was  broken  by  the  first 
words  of  an  address  no  less  fervent  than  its  un 
spoken  prelude."  This  was  in  the  summer  of 
1873,  and  Agassiz  died  the  December  following 

ON  the  isle  of  Penikese, 
Ringed  about  by  sapphire  seas, 
Fanned  by  breezes  salt  and  cool, 
Stood  the  Master  with  his  school. 
Over  sails  that  not  in  vain 
Wooed  the  west-wind's  steady  strain, 
Line  of  coast  that  low  and  far 
Stretched  its  undulating  bar, 
Wings  aslant  across  the  rim 
Of  the  waves  they  stooped  to  skini, 
Rook  and  isle  and  glistening  bay, 
Fell  the  beautiful  white  day. 

Said  the  Master  to  the  youth : 
"  We  have  come  in  search  of  truth, 
Trying  with  uncertain  key 
Door  by  door  of  mystery  ; 
We  are  reaching,  through  His  laws, 
To  the  garment-hem  of  Cause, 
Him,  the  endless,  unbegun, 
The  Unnamable,  the  One 
Light  of  all  our  light  the  Source 
Life  of  life,  and  Force  of  force. 


IN   QUEST 


451 


As  with  fingers  of  the  blind, 

We  are  groping  here  to  find 

What  the  hieroglyphics  mean 

Of  the  Unseen  in  the  seen, 

What  the  Thought  which  underlies 

Nature's  masking  and  disguise, 

What  it  is  that  hides  beneath 

Blight  and  bloom  and  birth  and  death. 

By  past  efforts  unavailing, 

Doubt  and  error,  loss  and  failing, 

Of  our  weakness  made  aware, 

On  the  threshold  of  our  task 

Let  us  light  and  guidance  ask, 

Let  us  pause  in  silent  prayer  ! " 

Then  the  Master  in  his  place 
Bowed  his  head  a  little  space, 
And  the  leaves  by  soft  airs  stirred, 
Lapse  of  wave  and  cry  of  bird, 
Left  the  solemn  hush  unbroken 
Of  that  wordless  prayer  unspoken, 
While  its  wish,  on  earth  unsaid, 
Rose  to  heaven  interpreted. 
As,  in  life's  best  hours,  we  hear 
By  the  spirit's  finer  ear 
His  low  voice  within  us,  thus 
The  All-Father  heareth  us  ; 
And  His  holy  ear  we  pain 
With  our  noisy  words  and  vain. 
Not  for  Him  our  violence 
Storming  at  the  gates  of  sense, 
His  the  primal  language,  His 
The  eternal  silences  ! 

Even  the  careless  heart  was  moved, 

And  the  doubting  gave  assent, 

With  a  gesture  reverent, 

To  the  Master  well-beloved. 

As  thin  mists  are  glorified 

By  the  light  they  cannot  hide, 

All  who  gazed  upon  him  saw, 

Through  its  veil  of  tender  awe, 

How  his  face  was  still  uplit 

By  the  old  sweet  look  of  it, 

Hopeful,  trustful,  full  of  cheer, 

And  the  love  that  casts  out  fear. 

Who  the  secret  may  declare 

Of  that  brief,  unuttered  prayer  ? 

Did  the  shade  before  him  come 

Of  th'  inevitable  doom, 

Of  the  end  of  earth  so  near, 

And  Eternity's  new  year  ? 

In  the  lap  of  sheltering  seas 
Rests  the  isle  of  Penikese  ; 


But  the  lord  of  the  domain 
Comes  not  to  his  own  again  : 
Where  the  eyes  that  follow  fail, 
On  a  vaster  sea  his  sail 
Drifts  beyond  our  beck  and  hail. 
Other  lips  within  its  bound 
Shall  the  laws  of  life  expound  ; 
Other  eyes  from  rock  and  shell 
Read  the  world's  old  riddles  well : 
But  when  breezes  light  and  bland 
Blow  from  Summer's  blossomed 
When  the  air  is  glad  with  wings, 
And  the  blithe  song-sparrow  sings, 
Many  an  eye  with  his  still  face 
Shall  the  living  ones  displace, 
Many  an  ear  the  word  shall  seek 
He  alone  could  fitly  speak. 
And  one  name  fore  verm  ore 
Shall  be  uttered  o'er  and  o'er 
By  the  waves  that  kiss  the  shore, 
By  the  curlew's  whistle  sent 
Down  the  cool,  sea-scented  air  ; 
In  all  voices  known  to  her, 
Nature  owns  her  worshipper, 
Half  in  triumph,  half  lament. 
Thither  Love  shall  tearful  turn, 
Friendship  pause  uncovered  there, 
And  the  wisest  reverence  learn 
From  the  Master's  silent  prayer. 


IN    QUEST 

HAVE  I  not  voyaged,  friend  beloved,  with 

thee 

On  the  great  waters  of  the  unsounded  sea, 
Momently  listening  with  suspended  oar 
For  the  low  rote  of  waves  upon  a  shore 
Changeless   as    heaven,  where    never  fog- 
cloud  drifts 

Over  its  windless  wood,  nor  mirage  lifts 
The  steadfast  hills  ;  where  never  birds  of 

doubt 

Sing  to  mislead,  and  every  dream  dies  out, 
And   the   dark   riddles  which   perplex   us 

here 

In  the  sharp  solvent  of  its  light  are  clear  ? 
Thou   knowest  how  vain  our  quest  ;  how, 

soon  or  late, 

The  baffling  tides  and  circles  of  debate 
Swept   back   our   bark   unto   its    starting- 
place, 
Where,  looking  forth  upon  the  blank,  gray 

space, 
And  round  about  us  seeing,  with  sad  eyes, 


45  2 


RELIGIOUS    POEMS 


The  same  old  difficult  hills  and  cloud-cold 

skies, 
We  said  :  "  This  outward  search  availeth 

not 
To    find    Him.      He  is   farther   than    we 

thought, 

Or,  haply,  nearer.     To  this  very  spot 
Whereon   we   wait,    this    commonplace   of 

home, 

A.S  to  the  well  of  Jacob,  He  may  come 
And  tell   us   all  things."      As  I   listened 

there, 

Through  the  expectant  silences  of  prayer, 
Somewhat  I  seemed  to  hear,  which  hath  to 

me 
Been  hope,  strength,  comfort,  and  I  give  it 

thee. 

•'  The  riddle  of  the  world  is  understood 
Only  by  him  who  feels  that  God  is  good, 
As  only  he  can  feel  who  makes  his  love 
The  ladder  of  his  faith,  and  climbs  above 
On  th'  rounds  of  his  best  instincts  ;  draws 

no  line 

Between  mere  human  goodness  and  divine, 
But,  judging  God  by  what  in  him  is  best, 
With  a  child's  trust  leans  on  a   Father's 

breast, 
And  hears  unmoved  the  old  creeds  babble 

still 

Of  kingly  power  and  dread  caprice  of  will, 
Chary  of  blessing,  prodigal  of  curse, 
The  pitiless  doomsman  of  the  universe. 
Can  Hatred  ask  for  love  ?    Can  Selfishness 
Invite  to  self-denial  ?     Is  He  less 
Than  man  in  kindly  dealing  ?       Can  He 

break 

His  own  great  law  of  fatherhood,  forsake 
And  curse  His  children  ?     Not  for  earth 

and  heaven 

Can  separate  tables  of  the  law  be  given. 
No  rale  can  bind  which  He  himself  denies  ; 
The  truths  of  time  are  not  eternal  lies." 

So  heard  I  ;  and  the  chaos  round  me  spread 
To  light  and  order  grew  ;  and,  "Lord,"  I 

said, 

"  Our  sins  are  our  tormentors,  worst  of  all 
Felt  in  distrustful  shame  that  dares  not  call 
Upon  Thee  as  our  Father.     We  have  set 
A  strange  god  up,  but  Thou  remainest  yet. 
All  that  I  feel  of  pity  Thou  hast  known 
Before  I  was  ;  my  best  is  all  Thy  own. 
From  Thy  great  heart  of  goodness  mine  but 

drew 


Wishes  and  prayers  ;  but  Thou,  O  Lord, 

wilt  do, 

In  Thy  own  time,  by  ways  I  cannot  see, 
All  that  I  feel  when  I  am  nearest  Thee  ! " 


THE   FRIEND'S    BURIAL 

MY  thoughts  are  all  in  yonder  town, 
Where,  wept  by  many  tears, 

To-day  my  mother's  friend  lays  down 
The  burden  of  her  years. 

True  as  in  life,  no  poor  disguise 

Of  death  with  her  is  seen, 
And  on  her  simple  casket  lies 

No  wreath  of  bloom  and  green. 

Oh,  not  for  her  the  florist's  art, 
The  mocking  weeds  of  woe  ; 

Dear  memories  in  each  mourner's  heart 
Like  heaven's  white  lilies  blow. 

And  all  about  the  softening  air 
Of  new-born  sweetness  tells, 

And  the  ungathered  May-flowers  wear 
The  tints  of  ocean  shells. 

The  old,  assuring  miracle 

Is  fresh  as  heretofore  ; 
And  earth  takes  up  its  parable 

Of  life  from  death  once  more. 

Here  organ-swell  and  church-bell  toll 
Methinks  but  discord  were  ; 

The  prayerful  silence  of  the  soul 
Is  best  befitting  her. 

No  sound  should  break  the  quietude 

Alike  of  earth  and  sky  ; 
O  wandering  wind  in  Seabrook  wood, 

Breathe  but  a  half-heard  sigh  1 

Sing  softly,  spring-bird,  for  her  sake  ; 

And  thou  not  distant  sea, 
Lapse  lightly  as  if  Jesus  spake, 

And  thou  wert  Galilee  ! 

For  all  her  quiet  life  flowed  on 
As  meadow  streamlets  flow, 

Where  fresher  green  reveals  alone 
The  noiseless  ways  they  go. 

From  her  loved  place  of  prayer  I  see 
The  plain-robed  mourners  pass, 


A   CHRISTMAS   CARMEN 


453 


With  slow  feet  treading  reverently 
The  graveyard's  springing  grass. 

Make  room,  O  mourning  ones,  for  me, 
Where,  like  the  friends  of  Paul, 

That  you  no  more  her  face  shall  see 
You  sorrow  most  of  all. 

Her  path  shall  brighten  more  and  more 

Unto  the  perfect  day  ; 
She  cannot  fail  of  peace  who  bore 

Such  peace  with  her  away. 

O  sweet,  calm  face  that  seemed  to  wear 

The  look  of  sins  forgiven  ! 
O  voice  of  prayer  that  seemed  to  bear 

Our  own  needs  up  to  heaven  ! 

How  reverent  in  our  midst  she  stood, 

Or  knelt  in  grateful  praise  ! 
What  grace  of  Christian  womanhood 

Was  in  her  household  ways  ! 

For  still  her  holy  living  meant 

No  duty  left  undone  ; 
The  heavenly  and  the  human  blent 

Their  kindred  loves  in  one. 

And  if  her  life  small  leisure  found 

For  feasting  ear  and  eye, 
And  Pleasure,  on  her  daily  round, 

She  passed  unpausing  by, 

Yet  with  her  went  a  secret  sense 
Of  all  things  sweet  and  fair, 

And  Beauty's  gracious  providence 
Refreshed  her  unaware. 

She  kept  her  line  of  rectitude 
With  love's  unconscious  ease  ; 

Her  kindly  instincts  understood 
All  gentle  courtesies. 

An  inborn  charm  of  graciousness 
Made  sweet  her  smile  and  tone, 

And  glorified  her  farm-wife  dress 
With  beauty  not  its  own. 

The  dear  Lord's  best  interpreters 

Are  humble  human  souls  ; 
The  Gospel  of  a  life  like  hers 

Is  more  than  books  or  scrolls. 

From  scheme  and  creed  the  light  goes  out, 
The  saintly  fact  survives  ; 


The  blessed  Master  none  can  doubt 
Revealed  in  holy  lives. 

A   CHRISTMAS    CARMEN 


SOUND  over  all  waters,  reach  out  from  all 

lands, 

The  chorus  of  voices,  the  clasping  of  hands  ; 
Sing  hymns  that  were  sung  by  the  stars  of 

the  morn, 
Sing  songs  of  the  angels  when  Jesus  was 

born  ! 

With  glad  jubilations 
Bring  hope  to  the  nations  ! 
The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has  be 
gun  : 

Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 
All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts  beat 
as  one  ! 

II 

Sing  the  bridal  of  nations  I  with  chorals  of 
love 

Sing  out  the  war-vulture  and  sing  in  the 
dove, 

Till  the  hearts  of  the  peoples  keep  time  in 
accord, 

And  the  voice  of  the  world  is  the  voice  or 

the  Lord  ! 

Clasp  hands  of  the  nations 
In  strong  gratulations  : 

The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has  be 
gun  ; 

Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 
All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts  beat 
as  one  ! 

Ill 

Blow,   bugles    of    battle,    the   marches   of 
peace  ; 

East,  west,  north,  and  south  let  the  long 
quarrel  cease  : 

Sing  the  song  of  great  joy  that  the  angels 
began, 

Sing  of  glory  to  God  and  of  good-will  to 

man  ! 

Hark  !  joining  in  chorus 
The  heavens  bend  o'er  us  ! 

The  dark  night  is  ending  and  dawn  has  be 
gun  ; 

Rise,  hope  of  the  ages,  arise  like  the  sun, 
All  speech  flow  to  music,  all  hearts  beat 
as  one  ! 


454 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


VESTA 

O  CHRIST  of  God  !  whose  life  and  death 

Our  own  have  reconciled, 
Most  qiiietly,  most  tenderly 

Take  home  Thy  star-named  child  ! 

Thy  grace  is  in  her  patient  eyes, 
Thy  words  are  on  her  tongue  ; 

The  very  silence  round  her  seems 
As  if  the  angels  sung. 

Her  smile  is  as  a  listening  child's 

Who  hears  its  mother  call  ; 
The  lilies  of  Thy  perfect  peace 

About  her  pillow  fall. 

She  leans  from  out  our  clinging  arms 

To  rest  herself  in  Thine  ; 
Alone  to  Thee,  dear  Lord,  can  we 

Our  well-beloved  resign  ! 

Oh,  less  for  her  than  for  ourselves 
We  bow  our  heads  and  pray  ; 

Her  setting  star,  like  Bethlehem's, 
To  Thee  shall  point  the  way  ! 


CHILD-SONGS 

STILL  linger  in  our  noon  of  time 

And  on  our  Saxon  tongue 
The  echoes  of  the  home-born  hymns 

The  Aryan  mothers  sung. 

And  childhood  had  its  litanies 

In  every  age  and  clime  ; 
The  earliest  cradles  of  the  race 

Were  rocked  to  poet's  rhyme. 

Nor  sky,  nor  wave,  nor  tree,  nor  flower, 
Nor  green  earth's  virgin  sod, 

So  moved  the  singer's  heart  of  old 
As  these  small  ones  of  God. 

The  mystery  of  unfolding  life 
Was  more  than  dawning  morn, 

Than  opening  flower  or  crescent  moon 
The  human  soul  new-born  ! 

And  still  to  childhood's  sweet  appeal 

The  heart  of  genius  turns, 
And  more  than  all  the  sages  teach 

From  lisping  voices  learns,  — 


The  voices  loved  of  him  who  sang, 
Where  Tweed  and  Teviot  glide, 

That  sound  to-day  on  all  the  winds 
That  blow  from  Rydal-side,  — 

Heard  in  the  Teuton's  household  songs, 

And  folk-lore  of  the  Finn, 
Where'er  to  holy  Christmas  hearths 

The  Christ-child  enters  in  ! 

Before  life's  sweetest  mystery  still 
The  heart  in  reverence  kneels  ; 

The  wonder  of  the  primal  birth 
The  latest  mother  feels. 

We  need  love's  tender  lessons  taught 

As  only  weakness  can  ; 
God  hath  His  small  interpreters  ; 

The  child  must  teach  the  man. 

We  wander  wide  through  evil  years, 
Our  eyes  of  faith  grow  dim  ; 

But  he  is  freshest  from  His  hands 
And  nearest  unto  Him  ! 

And  haply,  pleading  long  with  Him 
For  sin-sick  hearts  and  cold, 

The  angels  of  our  childhood  still 
The  Father's  face  behold. 

Of  such  the  kingdom  !  —  Teach  Thou  us, 

O  Master  most  divine, 
To  feel  the  deep  significance 

Of  these  wise  words  of  Thine  ! 

The  haughty  eye  shall  seek  in  vain 

What  innocence  beholds  ; 
No  cunning  finds  the  key  of  heaven, 

No  strength  its  gate  unfolds. 

Alone  to  guilelessness  and  love 

That  gate  shall  open  fall  ; 
The  mind  of  pride  is  nothingness, 

The  childlike  heart  is  all  ! 


THE    HEALER 

TO    A    YOUNG    PHYSICIAN,    WITH    DORE'S 
PICTURE  OF  CHRIST  HEALING  THE  SICK 

So  stood  of  old  the  holy  Christ 
Amidst  the  suffering  throng  ; 

With  whom  His  lightest  touch  sufficed 
To  make  the  weakest  strong. 


OVERRULED 


455 


That  healing  gift  He  lends  to  them 

Who  use  it  in  His  name  ; 
The  power  that  filled  His  garment's  hem 

Is  evermore  the  same. 

For  lo  !  in  human  hearts  unseen 

The  Healer  dwelleth  still, 
And  they  who  make  His  temples  clean 

The  best  subserve  His  will. 

The  holiest  task  by  Heaven  decreed, 

An  errand  all  divine, 
The  burden  of  our  common  need 

To  render  less  is  thine. 

The  paths  of  pain  are  thine.     Go  forth 
With  patience,  trust,  and  hope  ; 

The  sufferings  of  a  sin-sick  earth 
Shall  give  thee  ample  scope. 

Beside  the  unveiled  mysteries 

Of  life  and  death  go  stand, 
With  guarded  lips  and  reverent  eyes 

And  pure  of  heart  and  hand. 

So  shalt  thou  be  with  power  endued 

From  Him  who  went  about 
The  Syrian  hillsides  doing  good, 

And  casting  demons  out. 

That  Good  Physician  liveth  yet 
Thy  friend  and  guide  to  be  ; 

The  Healer  by  Gennesaret 

Shall  walk  the  rounds  with  thee. 


THE   TWO   ANGELS 

GOD  called  the  nearest  angels  who  dwell 

with  Him  above  : 
The  tenderest  one  was   Pity,  the  dearest 

one  was  Love. 

"  Arise,"  He  said,  "  my  angels  !   a  wail  of 

woe  and  sin 
Steals    through  the    gates  of  heaven,  and 

saddens  all  within. 

"  My  harps  take  up  the  mournful  strain 
that  from  a  lost  world  swells, 

The  smoke  of  torment  clouds  the  light  and 
blights  the  asphodels. 

"  Fly  downward  to  that  under  world,  and 
on  its  souls  of  pain 


Let  Love  drop  smiles  like  sunshine,  and 
Pity  tears  like  rain  !  " 

Two  faces  bowed  before  the  Throne,  veiled 

in  their  golden  hair  ; 
Four  white  wings    lessened    swiftly  down 

the  dark  abyss  of  air. 

The  way  was  strange,  the  flight  was  long  : 

at  last  the  angels  came 
Where  swung  the  lost  and  nether    world, 

red-wrapped  in  rayless  flame. 

There  Pity,  shuddering,  wept  ;  but  Love, 
with  faith  too  strong  for  fear, 

Took  heart  from  God's  almightiness  and 
smiled  a  smile  of  cheer. 

And  lo  !    that  tear  of    Pity  quenched  the 

flame  whereon  it  fell, 
And,  with  the  sunshine  of  that  smile,  hope 

entered  into  hell ! 

Two  unveiled  faces  full  of  joy  looked  up 
ward  to  the  Throne, 

Four  white  wings  folded  at  the  feet  of  Him 
who  sat  thereon  ! 

And  deeper  than  the  sound  of  seas,  more 

soft  than  falling  flake, 
Amidst   the  hush  of   wing   and    song   the 

Voice  Eternal  spake  : 

"  Welcome,  my  angels  !  ye  have  brought  a 

holier  joy  to  heaven  ; 
Henceforth  its  sweetest  song  shall  be  the 

song  of  sin  forgiven  !  " 

OVERRULED 

THE  threads  our  hands  in  blindness  spin 
No  self-determined  plan  weaves  in  ; 
The  shuttle  of  the  unseen  powers 
Works  out  a  pattern  not  as  ours. 

Ah  !  small  the  choice  of  him  who  sings 
What  sound  shall  leave  the  smitten  strings  j 
Fate  holds  and  guides  the  hand  of  art  ; 
The  singer's  is  the  servant's  part. 

The  wind-harp  chooses  not  the  tone 

That    through    its    trembling    threads    is 

blown  ; 

The  patient  organ  cannot  guess 
What  hand  its  passive  keys  shall  press 


4S6 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Through  wish,  resolve,  and  act,  our  will 
Is  moved  by  undreamed  forces  still  ; 
And  no  man  measures  in  advance 
His  strength  with  untried  circumstance. 

As  streams  take  hue  from  shade  and  sun, 
As  runs  the  life  the  song  must  run  ; 
But,  glad  or  sad,  to  His  good  end 
God  grant  the  varying  notes  may  tend  ! 


HYMN    OF   THE    BUNKERS 

KLOSTER     KEDAR,     EPHRATA,     PENNSYL 
VANIA    (1738) 

SISTER    MARIA    CHRISTINA   sings. 

WAKE,  sisters,  wake  !  the  day-star  shines  ; 
Above  Ephrata's  eastern  pines 
The  dawn  is  breaking,  cool  and  calm. 
Wake,  sisters,  wake  to  prayer  and  psalm  ! 

Praised  be  the  Lord  for  shade  and  light, 
For  toil  by  day,  for  rest  by  night ! 
Praised  be  His  name  who  deigns  to  bless 
Our  Keclar  of  the  wilderness  ! 

Our  refuge  when  the  spoiler's  hand 
Was  heavy  on  our  native  land  ; 
And  freedom,  to  her  children  due, 
The  wolf  and  vulture  only  knew. 

We  praised  Him  when  to  prison  led, 
We  owned  Him  when  the  stake  blazed  red  ; 
We  knew,  whatever  might  befall, 
His  love  and  power  were  over  all. 

He  heard  our  prayers  ;  with  outstretched 

arm 

He  led  us  forth  from  cruel  harm  ; 
Still,  wheresoe'er  our  steps  were  bent, 
His  cloud  and  fire  before  us  went ! 

The  watch  of  faith  and  prayer  He  set, 
We  kept  it  then,  we  keep  it  yet. 
At  midnight,  crow  of  cock,  or  noon, 
He  cometh  sure,  He  cometh  soon. 

He  comes  to  chasten,  not  destroy, 
To  purge  the  earth  from  sin's  alloy, 
At  last,  at  last  shall  all  confess 
His  mercy  as  His  righteousness 

The  dead  shall  live,  the  sick  be  whole, 
The  scarlet  sin  be  white  as  wool  ; 


No  discord  mar  below,  above, 
The  music  of  eternal  love  ! 

Sound,  welcome  trump,  the  last  alarm  I 
Lord  God  of  hosts,  make  bare  thine  arm, 
Fulfil  this  day  our  long  desire, 
Make  sweet  and  clean  the  world  with  fire  \ 

Sweep,  flaming  besom,  sweep  from  sight 
The  lies  of  time  ;  be  swift  to  smite, 
Sharp  sword  of  God,  all  idols  down, 
Genevan  creed  and  Roman  crown. 

Quake,  earth,  through   all    thy  zones,  till 

all 

The  fanes  of  pride  and  priestcraft  fall 
And  lift  thou  up  in  place  of  them 
Thy  gates  of  pearl,  Jerusalem  ! 

Lo  !  rising  from  baptismal  flame, 
Transfigured,  glorious,  yet  the  same, 
Within  the  heavenly  city's  bound 
Our  Kloster  Kedar  shall  be  found. 

He  cometh  soon  !  at  dawn  or  noon 

Or  set  of  sun,  He  cometh  soon. 

Our  prayers  shall  meet  Him  on  His  way  ; 

Wake,  sisters,  wake  !  arise  and  pray  ! 


GIVING   AND    TAKING 

I  have  attempted  to  put  in  English  verse  a 

S-ose  translation  of  a  poem  by  Tinnevaluva,  a 
indoo  poet  of  the  third  century  of  our  era. 

WHO  gives  and  hides  the  giving  hand, 
Nor  counts  on  favor,  fame,  or  praise, 
Shall  find  his  smallest  gift  outweighs 

The  burden  of  the  sea  and  land. 

Who  gives  to  whom  hath  naught  been  given 
His  gift  in  need,  though  small  indeed 
As  is  the  grass-blade's  wind-blown  seed, 

Is  large  as  earth  and  rich  as  heaven. 

Forget  it  not,  O  man,  to  whom 

A  gift  shall  fall,  while  yet  on  earth  ; 
Yea,  even  to  thy  seven-fold  birth 

Recall  it  in  the  lives  to  come. 

Who  broods  above  a  wrong  in  thought 
Sins  much  ;  but  greater  sin  is  his 
Who,  fed  and  clothed  with  kindnesses. 

Shall  count  the  holy  alms  as  naught. 


THE   VISION   OF   ECHARD 


457 


Who  dares  to  curse  the  hands  that  bless 
Shall  know  of  sin  the  deadliest  cost  ; 
The  patience  of  the  heavens  is  lost 

Beholding  man's  unthankfulness. 

For  he  who  breaks  all  laws  may  still 
In  Sivam's  mercy  be  forgiven  ; 
But  none  can  save,  in  earth  or  heaven, 

The  wretch  who  answers  good  with  ill. 


THE   VISION    OF    ECHARD 

THE  Benedictine  Echard 

Sat  by  the  wayside  well, 
Where  Marsberg  sees  the  bridal 

Of  the  Sarre  and  the  Moselle. 

Fair  with  its  sloping  vineyards 
And  tawny  chestnut  bloom, 

The  happy  vale  Ausonius  sung 
For  holy  Treves  made  room. 

On  the  shrine  Helena  builded 
To  keep  the  Christ  coat  well, 

On  minster  tower  and  kloster  cross, 
The  westering  sunshine  fell. 

There,  where  the  rock-hewn  circles 
O'erlooked  the  Roman's  game, 

The  veil  of  sleep  fell  on  him, 

And  his  thought  a  dream  became. 

He  felt  the  heart  of  silence 
Throb  with  a  soundless  word, 

And  by  the  inward  ear  alone 
A  spirit's  voice  he  heard. 

And  the  spoken  word  seemed  written 
On  air  and  wave  and  sod, 

And  the  bending  walls  of  sapphire 
Blazed  with  the  thought  of  God  : 

'''What  lack  I,  O  my  children  ? 
All  things  are  in  my  hand  ; 
The  vast  earth  and  the  awful  stars 
I  hold  as  grains  of  sand. 

"  Need  I  your  alms  ?     The  silver 

And  gold  are  mine  alone  ; 
The^gifts  ye  bring  before  me 
Were  evermore  my  own. 

"  Heed  I  the  noise  of  viols, 

Your  pomp  of  masque  and  show  ? 


Have  I  not  dawns  and  sunsets  ? 
Have  I  not  winds  that  blow  ? 

"  Do  I  smell  your  gums  of  incense  ? 

Is  my  ear  with  chantings  fed  ? 
Taste  I  your  wine  of  worship, 
Or  eat  your  holy  bread  ? 

"  Of  rank  and  name  and  honors 

Am  I  vain  as  ye  are  vain  ? 
What  can  Eternal  Fulness 
From  your  lip-service  gain  ? 

"  Ye  make  me  not  your  debtor 

Who  serve  yourselves  alone  ; 
Ye  boast  to  me  of  homage 
Whose  gain  is  all  your  own. 

"  For  you  I  gave  the  prophets, 

For  you  the  Psalmist's  lay  : 
For  you  the  law's  stone  tables, 
And  holy  book  and  day. 

"  Ye  change  to  weary  burdens 

The  helps  that  should  uplift ; 
Ye  lose  in  form  the  spirit, 
The  Giver  in  the  gift. 

"  Who  called  ye  to  self-torment, 

To  fast  and  penance  vain  ? 
Dream  ye  Eternal  Goodness 
Has  joy  in  mortal  pain  ? 

"  For  the  death  in  life  of  Nitria, 

For  your  Chartreuse  ever  dumb, 
What  better  is  the  neighbor, 
Or  happier  the  home  ? 

"Who  counts  his  brother's  welfare 

As  sacred  as  his  own, 
And  loves,  forgives  and  pities, 
He  serveth  me  alone. 

"  I  note  each  gracious  purpose, 

Each  kindly  word  and  deed  ; 
Are  ye  not  all  my  children  ? 
Shall  not  the  Father  heed  ? 

"  No  prayer  for  light  and  guidance 

Is  lost  upon  mine  ear  : 
The  child's  cry  in  the  darkness 
Shall  not  the  Father  hear  ? 

"  I  loathe  your  wrangling  councils, 
I  tread  upon  your  creeds  ; 


458 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Who  made  ye  mine  avengers, 
Or  told  ye  of  my  needs  ; 

"  .T  bless  men  and  ye  curse  them, 

I  love  them  and  ye  hate  ; 
Ye  bite  and  tear  each  other, 
I  suffer  long  and  wait. 

"  Ye  bow  to  ghastly  symbols, 

To  cross  and  scourge  and  thorn  ; 
Ye  seek  his  Syrian  manger 
Who  in  the  heart  is  born. 

"  For  the  dead  Christ,  not  the  living, 

Ye  watch  His  empty  grave, 
Whose  life  alone  within  you 
Has  power  to  bless  and  save. 

"  O  blind  ones,  outward  groping, 

The  idle  quest  forego  ; 
Who  listens  to  His  inward  voice 
Alone  of  Him  shall  know. 

"  His  love  all  love  exceeding 

The  heart  must  needs  recall, 
Its  self-surrendering  freedom, 
Its  loss  that  gaineth  all. 

"  Climb  not  the  holy  mountains, 
Their  eagles  know  not  me  ; 
Seek  not  the  Blessed  Islands, 
I  dwell  not  in  the  sea. 

"  Gone  is  the  mount  of  Meru, 
The  triple  gods  are  gone, 
And,  deaf  to  all  the  lama's  prayers, 
The  Buddha  slumbers  on. 

"  No  more  from  rocky  Horeb 
The  smitten  waters  gush  ; 
Fallen  is  Bethel's  ladder, 

Quenched  is  the  burning  bush. 

"  The  jewels  of  the  Urim 

And  Thumrnim  all  are  dim  ; 
The  fire  has  left  the  altar, 
The  sign  the  teraphim. 

"  No  more  in  ark  or  hill  grove 

The  Holiest  abides  ; 
Not  in  the  scroll's  dead  letter 
The  eternal  secret  hides. 

"The  eye  shall  fail  that  searches 
For  me  the  hollow  sky  ; 


The  far  is  even  as  the  near, 
The  low  is  as  the  high. 

"  What  if  the  earth  is  hiding 

Her  old  faiths,  long  outworn  ? 

What  is  it  to  the  changeless  truth 

That  yours  shall  fail  in  turn  ? 

"  What  if  the  o'erturned  altar 
Lays  bare  the  ancient  lie  ? 
What  if  the  dreams  and  legends 
Of  the  world's  childhood  die  ? 

"  Have  ye  not  still  my  witness 

Within  yourselves  alway, 
My  hand  that  on  the  keys  of  life 
For  bliss  or  bale  I  lay  ? 

"  Still,  in  perpetual  judgment, 

I  hold  assize  within, 
With  sure  reward  of  holiness, 
And  dread  rebuke  of  sin. 

"  A  light,  a  guide,  a  warning, 

A  presence  ever  near, 
Through  the  deep  silence  of  the  flesh 
I  reach  the  inward  ear. 

"  My  Gerizim  and  Ebal 

Are  in  each  human  soul, 
The  still,  small  voice  of  blessing, 
And  Sinai's  thunder-roll. 

"  The  stern  behest  of  duty, 

The  doom-book  open  thrown, 
The  heaven  ye  seek,  the  hell  ye  fear, 
Are  with  yourselves  alone." 


A  gold  and  purple  sunset 

Flowed  down  the  broad  Moselle  ; 
On  hills  of  vine  and  meadow  lands 

The  peace  of  twilight  fell. 

A  slow,  cool  wind  of  evening 
Blew  over  leaf  and  bloom  ; 

And,  faint  and  far,  the  Angelus 
Rang  from  Saint  Matthew's  tomb. 

Then  up  rose  Master  Echard, 
And  marvelled  :  "  Can  it  be 

That  here,  in  dream  and  vision, 
The  Lord  hath  talked  with  me  ?  * 

He  went  his  way  ;  behind  him 
The  shrines  of  saintly  dead, 


THE    MINISTER'S    DAUGHTER 


459 


The  holy  coat  and  nail  of  cross, 
He  left  unvisited. 

He  sought  the  vale  of  Eltzbach 
His  burdened  soul  to  free, 

Where  the  foot-hills  of  the  Eifel 
Are  glassed  in  Laachersee. 

And,  in  his  Order's  kloster, 
He  sat,  in  night-long  parle, 

With  Tauler  of  the  Friends  of  God, 
And  Nicolas  of  Basle. 

And  lo  !  the  twain  made  answer  : 
"  Yea,  brother,  even  thus 

The  Voice  above  all  voices 
Hath  spoken  unto  us. 

"  The  world  will  have  its  idols, 

And  flesh  and  sense  their  sign  : 
But  the  blinded  eyes  shall  open, 
And  the  gross  ear  be  fine. 

"  What  if  the  vision  tarry  ? 

God's  time  is  always  best  ; 
The  true  Light  shall  be  witnessed, 
The  Christ  within  confessed. 

"  In  mercy  or  in  judgment 

He  shall  turn  and  overturn, 
Till  the  heart  shall  be  His  temple 
Where  all  of  Him  shall  learn." 


INSCRIPTIONS 

ON   A   SUN-DIAL 

FOR    DR.  HENRY    I.     BOWDITCH 

WITH  warning  hand  I  mark  Time's  rapid 
flight 

From  life's  glad  morning  to  its  solemn 
night  ; 

let,  through  the  dear  God's  love,  I  also 
show 

There  's  Light  above  me  by  the  Shade  be 
low. 

ON   A   FOUNTAIN 
FOR   DOROTHEA    L.   DIX 

STRANGER  and  traveller, 
Drink  freely  and  bestow 


A  kindly  thought  on  her 

Who  bade  this  fountain  flow, 

Yet  hath  no  other  claim 
Than  as  the  minister 

Of  blessing  in  God's  name. 
Drink,  and  in  His  peace  go  ! 


THE  MINISTER'S  DAUGHTER 

IN  the  minister's  morning  sermon 
He  had  told  of  the  primal  fall, 

And  how  thenceforth  the  wrath  of  God 
Rested  on  each  and  all. 

And  how  of  His  will  and  pleasure, 
All  souls,  save  a  chosen  few, 

Were  doomed  to  the  quenchless  burning^ 
And  held  in  the  way  thereto. 

Yet  never  by  faith's  unreason 

A  saintlier  soul  was  tried, 
And  never  the  harsh  old  lesson 

A  tenderer  heart  belied. 

And,  after  the  painful  service 
On  that  pleasant  Sabbath  day, 

He  walked  with  his  little  daughter 
Through  the  apple-bloom  of  May. 

Sweet  in  the  fresh  green  meadows 
Sparrow  and  blackbird  sung  ; 

Above  him  their  tinted  petals 
The  blossoming  orchards  hung. 

Around  on  the  wonderful  glory 

The  minister  looked  and  smiled  ; 
"  How  good  is  the  Lord  who  gives  us 

These  gifts  from  His  hand,  my  child  f 

"  Behold  in  the  bloom  of  apples 
And  the  violets  in  the  sward 
A  hint  of  the  old,  lost  beauty 
Of  the  Garden  of  the  Lord  ! " 

Then  up  spake  the  little  maiden, 

Treading  on  snow  and  pink  : 
"  O  father  !  these  pretty  blossoms 
Are  very  wicked,  I  think. 

"  Had  there  been  no  Garden  of  Eden 

There  never  had  been  a  fall  ; 

And  if  never  a  tree  had  blossomed 

God  would  have  loved  us  all." 


460 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


"  Hush,  child  !  "  the  father  answered, 

"  By  His  decree  man  fell  ; 
His  ways  are  in  clouds  and  darkness, 

But  He  doeth  all  things  well. 

"  And  whether  by  His  ordaining 

To  us  cometh  good  or  ill, 
Joy  or  pain,  or  light  or  shadow, 

We  must  fear  and  love  Him  still." 

«  Oh,  I  fear  Him  !  "  said  the  daughter, 
"  And  I  try  to  love  Him,  too  ; 

But  I  wish  He  was  good  and  gentle, 
Kind  and  loving  as  you." 

The  minister  groaned  in  spirit 
As  the  tremulous  lips  of  pain 

And  wide,  wet  eyes  uplifted 
Questioned  his  own  in  vain. 

Bowing  his  head  he  pondered 
The  words  of  the  little  one  ; 

Had  he  erred  in  his  life-long  teaching  ? 
Had  he  wrong  to  his  Master  done  ? 

To  what  grim  and  dreadful  idol 
Had  he  lent  the  holiest  name  ? 

Did  his  own  heart,  loving  and  human, 
The  God  of  his  worship  shame  ? 

And  lo  !  from  the  bloom  and  greenness, 
From  the  tender  skies  above, 

And  the  face  of  his  little  daughter, 
He  read  a  lesson  of  love. 

No  more  as  the  cloudy  terror 

Of  Sinai's  mount  of  law, 
But  as  Christ  in  the  Syrian  lilies 

The  vision  of  God  he  saw. 

And,  as  when,  in  the  clefts  of  Horeb, 
Of  old  was  His  presence  known, 

The  dread  Ineffable  Glory 
Was  Infinite  Goodness  alone. 

Thereafter  his  hearers  noted 
In  his  prayers  a  tenderer  strain, 

And  never  the  gospel  of  hatred 
Burned  on  his  lips  again. 

And  the  scoffing  tongue  was  prayerful, 
And  the  blinded  eyes  found  sight, 

And  hearts,  as  flint  aforetime, 

Grew  soft  in  his  warmth  and  light. 


BY  THEIR  WORKS 

CALL  him  not  heretic  whose  works  attest 
His  faith  in  goodness  by  no  creed  confessed. 
Whatever  in  love's  name  is  truly  done 
To  free  the  bound  and  lift  the  fallen  one 
Is   done  to  Christ.      Whoso  in  deed  and 

word 

Is  not  against  Him  labors  for  our  Lord. 
When  He,  who,    sad  and  weary,  longing 

sore 
For  love's  sweet  service,  sought  the  sisters' 

door, 

One  saw  the  heavenly,  one  the  human  guest, 
But  who  shall  say  which  loved  the  Master 

best? 


THE  WORD 

VOICE  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  making  known 
Man  to  himself,  a  witness  swift  and  sure, 
Warning,  approving,  true  and  wise  and 

pure, 

Counsel  and  guidance  that  misleadeth  none  ! 
By  thee  the  mystery  of  life  is  read  ; 

The  picture-writing  of  the  world's  gray 

seers, 
The  myths  and  parables  of  the  primal 

years, 

Whose  letter  kills,  by  thee  interpreted 
Take  healthful  meanings  fitted  to  our  needs, 
And  in  the  soul's  vernacular  express 
The  common  law  of   simple  righteous 
ness. 

Hatred  of  cant  and  doubt  of  human  creeds 
May  well  be  felt  :  the  unpardonable  sin 
Is  to  deny  the  Word  of  God  within  ! 


THE    BOOK 

GALLERY  of  sacred  pictures  manifold, 
A  minster  rich  in  holy  effigies, 
And  bearing  on  entablature  and  frieze 
The  hieroglyphic  oracles  of  old. 
Along  its  transept  aureoled  martyrs  sit ; 
And  the  low  chancel  side-lights  half  ao 

quaint 
The  eye  with  shrines  of  prophet,  bard, 

and  saint, 

Their  age-dimmed  tablets  traced  in  doubt 
ful  writ ! 


ORIENTAL   MAXIMS 


461 


But  only  when  on  form  and  word  obscure 
Falls   from   above    the   white    supernal 

light 

We  read  the  mystic  characters  aright, 
And  life  informs  the  silent  portraiture, 
Until  we  pause  at  last,  awe-held,  before 
The  One  ineffable  Face,  love,  wonder,  and 
adore. 


REQUIREMENT 

WE  live  by  Faith ;    but   Faith  is  not  the 

slave 
Of  text  and  legend.     Reason's  voice  and 

God's, 

Nature's  and  Duty's,  never  are  at  odds. 
What  asks  our  Father  of  His  children,  save 
Justice  and  mercy  and  humility, 
A  reasonable  service  of  good  deeds, 
Pure  living,  tenderness  to  human  needs, 
Reverence  and  trust,  and  prayer  for  light 

to  see 

The  Master's  footprints  in  our  daily  ways  ? 
No  knotted  scourge  nor  sacrificial  knife, 
But  the  calm  beauty  of  an  ordered  life 
Whose      very      breathing     is      unworded 

praise  !  — 
A  life  that  stands  as  all  true    lives   have 

stood, 
Firm-rooted  in  the  faith  that  God  is  Good. 


HELP 

DREAM  not,  O  Soul,  that  easy  is  the  task 
Thus  set  before  thee.     If  it  proves  at 

length, 
As   well    it    may,   beyond    thy   natural 

strength, 

Faint  not,  despair  not.     As  a  child  may  ask 
A  father,  pray  the  Everlasting  Good 

For  light  and  guidance  midst  the  subtle 

snares 

Of  sin  thick  planted  in  life's  thorough 
fares, 

For  spiritual  strength  and  moral  hardihood  ; 
Still  listening,  through  the   noise   of  time 

and  sense, 

To  the  still  whisper  of  the  Inward  Word  ; 
Bitter  in  blame,  sweet  in  approval  heard, 
Itself  its  own  confirming  evidence  : 
To  health  of  soul  a  voice  to  cheer  and  please, 
To  guilt  the  wratn  of  the  Eumenides, 


UTTERANCE 

BUT  what  avail  inadequate  words  to  reach 
The   innermost   of   Truth  ?     Who  shall 

essay, 
Blinded  and  weak,  to  point  and  lead  the 

way, 

Or  solve  the  mystery  in  familiar  speech  ? 
Yet,  if  it  be  that  something  not  thy  own, 
Some  shadow  of  the  Thought  to  which 

our  schemes, 
Creeds,  cult,  and  ritual  are  at  best  but 

dreams, 

Is  even  to  thy  unworthiness  made  known, 
Thou  mayst  not  hide  what  yet  thou  shouldst 

not  dare 

To  utter  lightly,  lest  on  lips  of  thine 
The  real  seem  false,  the   beauty   undi- 

vine. 

So,  weighing  duty  in  the  scale  of  prayer, 
Give  what  seems  given  thee.     It  may  prove 

a  seed 

Of  goodness  dropped  in  fallow-grounds  of 
need. 


ORIENTAL   MAXIMS 

PARAPHRASE     OF     SANSCRIT      TRANSLA 
TIONS 

THE   INWARD    JUDGE 
From  Institutes  of  Manu. 

THE  soul  itself  its  awful  witness  is. 
Say  not  in  evil  doing,  "  No  one  sees," 
And  so  offend  the  conscious  One  within, 
Whose  ear  can  hear  the  silences  of  sin 
Ere  they  find  voice,  whose  eyes  unsleeping 

see 
The  secret  motions  of  iniquity. 

Nor  in  thy  folly  say,  "  I  am  alone." 
For,  seated  in  thy  heart,  as  on  a  throne, 
The    ancient   Judge    and   Witness    liveth 

still, 
To  note  thy  act  and  thought  ;  and  as  thy 

ill 
Or  good  goes  from  thee,  far  beyond  thy 

reach, 
The   solemn   Doomsman's   seal   is   set   on 

each. 


462 


RELIGIOUS    POEMS 


LAYING   UP   TREASURE 
From  the  Mahabhdrata. 

BEFORE  the  Ender  comes,  whose  charioteer 
Is  swift  or  slow  Disease,  lay  up  each  year 
Thy    harvests   of   well-doing,  wealth   that 

kings 
Nor  thieves  can  take  away.     When  all  the 

things 
Thou  callest  thine,  goods,  pleasures,  honors 

fall, 
Thou  in  thy  virtue  shalt  survive  them  all. 

CONDUCT 
From  the  Mahabhdrata. 

HEED  how  thou  livest.     Do  no  act  by  day 
Which  from  the  night  shall  drive  thy  peace 

away. 

In  months  of  sun  so  live  that  months  of  rain 
Shall  still  be  happy.     Evermore  restrain 
Evil  and  cherish  good,  so  shall  there  be 
Another  and  a  happier  life  for  thee. 


AN    EASTER   FLOWER    GIFT 

O  DEAREST  bloom  the  seasors  know, 
Flowers  of  the  Resurrection,  blow, 

Our  hope  and  faith  restore  ; 
And  through  the  bitterness  of  death 
And  loss  and  sorrow,  breathe  a  breath 

Of  life  forevermore  ! 

The  thought  of  Love  Immortal  blends 
With  fond  remembrances  of  friends  ; 

In  you,  O  sacred  flowers, 
By  human  love  made  doubly  sweet, 
The  heavenly  and  the  earthly  meet, 

The  heart  of  Christ  and  ours  ! 


THE    MYSTIC'S    CHRISTMAS 

"  ALL  hail  !  "  the  bells  of  Christmas  rang, 
•'  All  hail !  "  the  monks  at  Christmas  sang, 
The  merry  monks  who  kept  with  cheer 
The  gladdest  day  of  all  their  year. 

But  still  apart,  unmoved  thereat, 
A  pious  elder  brother  sat 


Silent,  in  his  accustomed  place, 

With  God's  sweet  peace  upon  his  face. 

"Why    sitt'st  thou  thus?"   his  brethren 

cried. 

"  It  is  the  blessed  Christmas-tide  ; 
The  Christmas  lights  are  all  aglow, 
The  sacred  lilies  bud  and  blow. 

"  Above  our  heads  the  joy-bells  ring, 
Without  the  happy  children  sing, 
And  all  God's  creatures  hail  the  morn 
On  which  the  holy  Christ  was  born  ! 

"  Rejoice  with  us  ;  no  more  rebuke 
Our  gladness  with  thy  quiet  look." 
The  gray  monk  answered  :  "  Keep,  I  pray, 
Even  as  ye  list,  the  Lord's  birthday. 

"  Let  heathen  Yule  fires  flicker  red 
Where     thronged    refectory     feasts     are 

spread  ; 

With  mystery-play  and  masque  and  mime 
And  wait-songs  speed  the  holy  time  ! 

"  The  blindest  faith  may  haply  save  ; 
The  Lord  accepts  the  things  we  have  ; 
And  reverence,  howsoe'er  it  strays, 
May  find  at  last  the  shining  ways. 

"  They  needs  must  grope  who  cannot  see, 

The  blade  before  the  ear  must  be  ; 

As  ye  are  feeling  I  have  felt, 

And  where  ye  dwell  I  too  have  dwelt. 

"  But  now,  beyond  the  things  of  sense, 
Beyond  occasions  and  events, 
I  know,  through  God's  exceeding  grace, 
Release  from  form  and  time  and  place. 

"  I  listen,  from  no  mortal  tongue, 
To  hear  the  soug  the  angels  sung; 
And  wait  within  myself  to  know 
The  Christmas  lilies  bud  and  blow. 

"  The  outward  symbols  disappear 
From  him  whose  inward  sight  is  clear  • 
And  small  must  be  the  choice  of  days 
To  him  who  fills  them  all  with  praise  t 

"  Keep  while  you  need  it,  brothers  mine, 
With  honest  zeal  your  Christmas  sign, 
But  judge  not  him  who  every  morn 
Feels  in  his  heart  the  Lord  Christ  born  !  " 


WHAT   THE  TRAVELLER   SAID   AT   SUNSET 


463 


AT  LAST 

[Recited  by  one  of  the  little  group  of  rela 
tions,  who  stood  by  the  poet's  bedside,  as  tlie 
last  moment  of  his  life  approached.] 

WHEN  on  my  day  of  life  the  night  is  fall 
ing* 
And,  in  the  winds  from  unsunned  spaces 

blown, 

I  hear  far  voices  out  of  darkness  calling 
My  feet  to  paths  unknown, 

Thou  who  hast  made  my  home  of  life  so 

pleasant, 
Leave  not  its  tenant  when  its  walls  decay; 

0  Love  Divine,  O  Helper  ever  present, 
Be  Thou  my  strength  and  stay  ! 

Be  near  me  when  all  else  is  from  me  drift 
ing; 
Earth,    sky,   home's    pictures,    days    of 

shade  and  shine, 

And  kindly  faces  to  my  own  uplifting 
The  love  which  answers  mine. 

1  have  but  Thee,  my  Father  !  let  Thy  spirit 
Be  with  me  then  to  comfort  and  uphold  ; 

No   gate   of   pearl,  no  branch  of   palm  I 

merit, 
Nor  street  of  shining  gold. 

Suffice  it  if  —  my  good  and  ill  unreckoned, 
And  both  forgiven  through  Thy  abound 
ing  grace  — 

I  find  myself  by  hands  familiar  beckoned 
Unto  my  fitting  place. 

Some  humble  door  among  Thy  many  man 
sions, 
Some   sheltering  shade    where   sin  and 

striving  cease, 
And  flows  forever  through  heaven's  green 

expansions 
The  river  of  Thy  peace. 

There,  from    the   music   round   about    me 

stealing, 
1   fain  would   learn   the   new  and   holy 

song, 
And  find   at   last,  beneath   Thy   trees   of 

healing, 
The  life  for  which  I  long. 


WHAT   THE   TRAVELLER   SAID 
AT    SUNSET 

THE  shadows  grow  and  deepen  round  me, 
I  feel  the  dew-fall  in  the  air  ; 

The  muezzin  of  the  darkening  thicket, 
I  hear  the  night-thrush  call  to  prayer. 

The  evening  wind  is  sad  with  farewells, 
And  loving  hands  unclasp  from  mine  ; 

Alone  I  go  to  meet  the  darkness 
Across  an  awful  boundary-line. 

As  from  the  lighted  hearths  behind  me 
I  pass  with  slow,  reluctant  feet, 

What  waits  me  in  the  land  of  strangeness  ? 
What  face  shall  smile,  what  voice  shall 
greet  ? 

What   space    shall    awe,    what   brightness 
blind  me  ? 

What  thunder-roll  of  music  stun  ? 
What  vast  processions  sweep  before  me 

Of  shapes  unknown  beneath  the  sun  ? 

I  shrink  from  unaccustomed  glory, 
I  dread  the  myriad-voiced  strain  ; 

Give  me  the  unforgotten  faces, 
And  let  my  lost  ones  speak  again. 

He  will  not  chide  my  mortal  yearning 
Who  is  our  Brother  and  our  Friend  ; 

In  whose  full  life,  divine  and  human, 
The  heavenly  and  the  earthly  blend. 

Mine  be  the  joy  of  soul-communion, 

The  sense  of  spiritual  strength  renewed, 

The  reverence  for  the  pure  and  holy, 
The  dear  delight  of  doing  good. 

No  fitting  ear  is  mine  to  listen 

An  endless  anthem's  rise  and  fall ; 

No  curious  eye  is  mine  to  measure 
The  pearl  gate  and  the  jasper  wall. 

For  love  must  needs  be  more  than  know 
ledge  : 

What  matter  if  I  never  know 
Why  Aldebaran's  star  is  ruddy, 

Or  warmer  Sirius  white  as  snow  ! 

Forgive  my  human  words,  O  Father ! 
I  go  Thy  larger  truth  to  prove  ; 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


Thy  mercy  shall  transcend  my  longing  : 
I  seek  but  love,  and  Thou  art  Love  ! 

I  go  to  find  my  lost  and  mourned  for 
Safe  in  Thy  sheltering  goodness  still, 

And  all  that  hope  and  faith  foreshadow 
Made  perfect  in  Thy  holy  will  I 


*'THE   STORY   OF   IDA" 

Francesca  Alexander,  whose  pen  and  pencil 
have  so  reverently  transcribed  the  simple  faith 
and  life  of  the  Italian  peasantry,  wrote  the 
narrative  published  with  John  Ruskin's  intro 
duction  under  the  title,  The  Story  of  Ida. 

WEARY  of  jangling  noises  never  stilled, 
The  skeptic's  sneer,  the  bigot's  hate,  the 

din 
Of  clashing   texts,   the   webs   of    creed 

men  spin 
Round   simple   truth,  the   children  grown 

who  build 

With  gilded  cards  their  new  Jerusalem, 
Busy,  with  sacerdotal  tailorings 
And  tinsel  gauds,  bedizening  holy  things, 
I  turn,  with  glad  and  grateful  heart,  from 

them 

To  the  sweet  story  of  the  Florentine 
Immortal  in  her  blameless  maidenhood, 
Beautiful  as  God's  angels  and  as  good  ; 
Feeling  that  life,  even  now,  may  be  divine 
With  love  no  wrong   can  ever   change  to 

hate, 
Ko  sin  make  less  than  all-compassionate  ! 


THE   LIGHT   THAT   IS   FELT 

A  TENDER  child  of  summers  three, 
Seeking  her  little  bed  at  night, 

Paused  on  the  dark  stair  timidly. 

"  Oh,  mother  !     Take  my  hand,"  said  she, 
"  And  then  the  dark  will  all  be  light." 

We  older  children  grope  our  way 

From  dark  behind  to  dark  before  ; 
And  only  when  our  hands  we  lay, 
Dear  Lord,  in  Thine,  the  night  is  day, 
And  there  is  darkness  nevermore. 

Reach  downward  to  the  sunless  days 

Wherein  our  guides  are  blind  as  we, 
And  faith  is  small  and  hope  delays  ; 


Take  Thou  the  hands  of  prayer  we  raise 
And  let  us  feel  the  light  of  Thee  i 


THE   TWO    LOVES 

SMOOTHING  soft  the  nestling  head 

Of  a  maiden  fancy-led, 

Thus  a  grave-eyed  woman  said : 

"  Richest  gifts  are  those  we  make, 
Dearer  than  the  love  we  take 
That  we  give  for  love's  own  sake. 

"  Well  I  know  the  heart's  unrest  ; 
Mine  has  been  the  common  quest, 
To  be  loved  and  therefore  blest. 

"  Favors  undeserved  were  mine  ; 
At  my  feet  as  on  a  shrine 
Love  has  laid  its  gifts  divine. 

"  Sweet  the  offerings  seemed,  and  yet 
With  their  sweetness  came  regret, 
And  a  sense  of  unpaid  debt. 

"  Heart  of  mine  unsatisfied, 
Was  it  vanity  or  pride 
That  a  deeper  joy  denied  ? 

"  Hands  that  ope  but  to  receive 
Empty  close  ;  they  only  live 
Richly  who  can  richly  give. 

"  Still,"  she  sighed,  with  moistening 
"  Love  is  sweet  in  any  guise  ; 
But  its  best  is  sacrifice  ! 

"  He  who,  giving,  does  not  crave 
Likest  is  to  Him  who  gave 
Life  itself  the  loved  to  save. 

"  Love,  that  self-forgetful  gives, 
Sows  surprise  of  ripened  sheaves, 
Late  or  soon  its  own  receives." 


ADJUSTMENT 

THE  tree  of  Faith  its  bare,  dry  boughs  must 

shed 
That  nearer  heaven  the  living  ones  may 

climb  ; 
The  false  must   fail,  though  from  GUI 

shores  of  time 


HYMNS   OF   THE  BRAHMO   SOMAJ 


465 


The  old  lament  be  heard,  "  Great  Pan  is 

dead  ! " 
That  wail  is  Error's,  from   his  high  place 

hurled  ; 

This  sharp  recoil  is  Evil  undertrod  ; 
Our  time's  unrest,  an  angel  sent  of  God 
Troubling  w'th  life  the  waters  of  the  world. 
Even  as  they  list  the  winds  of  the  Spirit 

blow 
To   turn  or   break  our  century  -  rusted 

vanes ; 
Sands  shift  and  waste ;  the  rock  alone 

remains 
Where,   led  of   Heaven,  the   strong   tides 

come  and  go, 
And  storm-clouds,  rent  by  thunderbolt  and 

wind, 

Leave,  free  of  mist,  the  permanent  stars 
behind. 

Therefore  I  trust,  although  to  outward  sense 
Both  true  and  false  seem  shaken  ;  I  will 

hold 
With  newer  light  my  reverence  for  the 

old 

And  calmly  wait  the  births  of  Providence. 
No  gain  is  lost ;  the  clear-eyed  saints  look 

down 
Untroubled  on  the  wreck  of  schemes  and 

creeds  ; 
Love    yet  remains,   its   rosary  of   good 

deeds 

Counting  in  task-field  and  o'erpeopled  town. 
Truth  has  charmed  life  ;  the  Inward  Word 

survives, 

And,  day  by  day,  its  revelation  brings  ; 
Faith,    hope,    and    charity,    whatsoever 

things 
Which  cannot  be  shaken,  stand.     Still  holy 

lives 

Reveal  the  Christ  of  whom  the  letter  told, 
And  the  new  gospel  verifies  the  old. 


HYMNS  OF  THE  BRAHMO 
SOMAJ 

I  have  attempted  this  paraphrase  of  the 
Hymns  of  the  Brahmo  Somaj  of  India,  as  I 
find  them  in  Mozoomdar's  account  of  the  devo 
tional  exercises  of  that  remarkable  religious 
development  which  has  attracted  far  less  atten 
tion  and  sympathy  from  the  Christian  \vorld 
than  it  deserves,  as  a  fresh  revelation  of  the 
direct  action  of  the  Divine  Spirit  upon  the  hu 
man  heart. 


THE  mercy,  0  Eternal  One  ! 

By  man  unmeasured  yet, 
In  joy  or  grief,  in  shade  or  sun, 

I  never  will  forget. 
I  give  the  whole,  and  not  a  part, 

Of  all  Thou  gavest  me  ; 
My  goods,  my  life,  my  soul  and  heart, 

I  yield  them  all  to  Thee  ! 


We  fast  and  plead,  we  weep  and  pray, 

From  morning  until  even  ; 
We  feel  to  find  the  holy  way, 

We  knock  at  the  gate  of  heaven  ! 
And  when  in  silent  awe  we  wait, 

And  word  and  sign  forbear, 
The  hinges  of  the  golden  gate 

Move,  soundless,  to  our  prayer  ! 
Who  hears  the  eternal  harmonies 

Can  heed  no  outward  word  ; 
Blind  to  all  else  is  he  who  sees 

The  vision  of  the  Lord  ! 

Ill 

O  soul,  be  patient,  restrain  thy  tears, 

Have  hope,  and  not  despair  ; 
As  a  tender  mother  heareth  her  child 

God  hears  the  penitent  prayer. 
And  not  forever  shall  grief  be  thine  ; 

On  the  Heavenly  Mother's  breast, 
Washed  clean  and  white  in  waters  of  joy 

Shall  His  seeking  child  find  rest. 
Console  thyself  with  His  word  of  grace, 

And  cease  thy  wail  of  woe, 
For  His  mercy  never  an  equal  hath, 

And  His  love  no  bounds  can  know. 
Lean  close  unto  Him  in  faith  and  hope  ; 

How  many  like  thee  have  found 
In  Him  a  shelter  and  home  of  peace, 

By  His  mercy  compassed  round  ! 
There,  safe   from    sin    and    the  sorrow  it 
brings, 

They  sing  their  grateful  psalms, 
And  rest,  at  noon,  by  the  wells  of  God, 

In  the  shade  of  His  holy  palms  1 


REVELATION 

"  And  I  went  into  the  Vale  of  Beavor,  and  as  I  went  I 
preached  repentance  to  the  people.  And  one  morning 
sitting  by  the  fire,  a  great  cloud  came  over  me,  and 
a  temptation  beset  me.  And  it  was  said  :  All  things 
come  by  Nature  ;  and  the  Elements  and  the  Stars  came 
over  me.  And  as  I  **t  still  aid  let  it  alone,  a  living 


466 


RELIGIOUS   POEMS 


hope  arose  in  me,  and  a  true  Voice  which  said  :  There 
is  a  living  God  ii'ho  made  all  things.  And  immediately 
the  cloud  and  the  temptation  vanished,  and  Life  rose 
over  all,  and  my  heart  was  glad  and  I  praised  the  living 
God."  —  Journal  of  George  Fox,  1090. 

STILL,  as  of  old,  in  Beavor's  Vale, 

0  man  of  God  !  our  hope  and  faith 
The  Elements  and  Stars  assail, 

And  the  awed  spirit  holds  its  breath, 
Blown  over  by  a  wind  of  death. 

Takes  Nature  thought  for  such  as  we, 
What  place  her  human  atom  fills, 

The  weed-drift  of  her  careless  sea, 
The  mist  on  her  unheeding  hills  ? 
What  recks  she  of  our  helpless  wills  ? 

Strange  god  of  Force,  with  fear,  not  love, 
Its  trembling  worshipper  !     Can  prayer 

Reach  the  shut  ear  of  Fate,  or  move 
Unpitying  Energy  to  spare  ? 
What  doth  the  cosmic  Vastness  care  ? 

In  vain  to  this  dread  Unconcern 
For  the  All-Father's  love  we  look; 

In  vain,  in  quest  of  it,  we  turn 

The  storied  leaves  of  Nature's  book, 
The  prints  her  rocky  tablets  took. 

I  pray  for  faith,  I  long  to  trust  ; 

1  listen  with  my  heart,  and  hear 
A  Voice  without  a  sound  :  "  Be  just, 

Be  true,  be  merciful,  revere 

The  Word  within  thee  :  God  is  near  ! 

K  A  light  to  sky  and  earth  unknown 
Pales  all  their  lights  :  a  mightier  force 


Than  theirs  the  powers  of  Nature  own, 
And,  to  its  goal  as  at  its  source, 
His  Spirit  moves  the  Universe. 

"Believe    and   trust.     Through   stars   and 

suns, 
Through  life  and  death,  through  soul  and 

sense, 

His  wise,  paternal  purpose  runs  ; 
The  darkness  of  His  providence 
Is  star-lit  with  benign  intents." 

0  joy  supreme  !     I  know  the  Voice, 
Like  none  beside  on  earth  or  sea  ; 

Yea,  more,  O  soul  of  mine,  rejoice, 
By  all  that  He  requires  of  me, 
I  know  what  God  himself  must  be. 

No  picture  to  my  aid  I  call, 

I  shape  no  image  in  my  prayer  ; 

1  only  know  in  Him  is  all 

Of  life,  light,  beauty,  everywhere, 
Eternal  Goodness  here  and  there  ! 

I  know  He  is,  and  what  He  is, 

Whose  one  great  purpose  is  the  good 

Of  all.     I  rest  my  soul  on  His 
Immortal  Love  and  Fatherhood  ; 
And  trust  Him,  as  His  children  should. 

I  fear  no  more.     The  clouded  face 

Of  Nature  smiles  ;  through  all  her  things 

Of  time  and  space  and  sense  I  trace 
The  moving  of  the  Spirit's  wings, 
And  hear  the  song  of  hope  she  sings. 


AT   SUNDOWN 


TO  E.  a  s. 

FOET  and  friend  of  poets,  if  thy  glass 
Detects  no  flower  in  winter's  tuft  of  grass, 
Let  this  slight  token  of  the  debt  I  owe 

Outlive  for  thee  December's  frozen  day, 
And,  like  the  arbutus  budding  under  snow, 

Take  bloom  and  fragrance  from  some  morn 

of  May 

When  he  who  gives  it  shall  have  gone  the  way 
Where  faith  shall  see  and  reverent  trust  shall 
know. 


THE   CHRISTMAS    OF    1888 

Low  in   the   east,    against  a   white,   cold 

dawn, 
The  black-lined  silhouette  of  the  woods  was 

drawn, 

And  on  a  wintry  waste 
Of  frosted  streams  and  hillsides  bare  and 

brown, 
Through   thin   cloud-films   a  pallid   ghost 

looked  down, 
The  waning  moon  half-faced  ! 

In  that   pale   sky  and  sere,  snow-waiting 

earth, 
What  sign  was  there  of  the  immortal  birth  ? 

What  herald  of  the  One  ? 
Lo  !  swift  as  thought  the  heavenly  radiance 

came, 
A  rose-red   splendor   swept  the  sky  like 

flame, 
Up  rolled  the  round,  bright  sun  ! 

And  all  was  changed.     From  a  transfigured 
world 

The  moon's  ghost  fled,  the  smoke  of  home- 
hearths  curled 
Up  the  still  air  unblown. 

In  Orient  warmth  and  brightness,  did  that 
morn 

O'er  Nain  and  Nazareth,  when  the  Christ 

was  born, 
Break  fairer  than  our  own  ? 


The  morning's  promise  noon  and  eve  ful 
filled 
In  warm,  soft  sky  and  landscape  hazy-hilled 

And  sunset  fair  as  they  ; 
A  sweet  reminder  of  His  holiest  time, 
A  summer-miracle  in  our  winter  clime, 

God  gave  a  perfect  day. 

The  near  was  blended  with  the  old  and  far, 
And  Bethlehem's  hillside  and  the  Magi's 

star 

Seemed  here,  as  there  and  then,  — 
Our  homestead  pine-tree  was  the  Syrian 

palm, 
Our   heart's   desire   the   angels'   midnight 

psalm, 
Peace,  and  good-will  to  men  ! 

THE  VOW  OF  WASHINGTON 

Read  in  New  York,  April  30,  1889,  at  the 
Centennial  Celebration  of  the  Inauguration  of 
George  Washington  as  the  first  President  of  the 
United  States. 

THE  sword  was  sheathed  :  in  April's  sun 
Lay  green  the  fields  by  Freedom  won  ; 
And  severed  sections,  weary  of  debates, 
Joined   hands   at    last    and    were    United 

States. 

O  City  sitting  by  the  Sea  ! 

How  proud  the  day  that  dawned  on  thee, 
When  the  new  era,  long  desired,  began, 
And,  in  its  need,  the  hour  had  found  the 


One  thought  the  cannon  salvos  spoke, 
The  resonant  bell-tower's  vibrant  stroke. 
The   voiceful    streets,  the    plaudit-echoing 

halls, 

And  prayer  and  hymn  borne  heavenward 
from  St.  Paul's  ! 

How  felt  the  land  in  every  part 
The  strong  throb  of  a  nation's  heart, 


467 


468 


AT   SUNDOWN 


As  its  great  leader  gave,  with  reverent  awe, 
His  pledge  to  Union,  Liberty,  and  Law  ! 

That    pledge    the    heavens    above   him 

heard, 

That  vow  the  sleep  of  centuries  stirred  ; 
In   world-wide    wonder    listening    peoples 

bent 
Their  gaze  on  Freedom's  great  experiment. 

Could  it  succeed  ?     Of  honor  sold 
And  hopes  deceived  all  history  told. 

Above  the  wrecks  that  strewed  the  mourn 
ful  past, 

Was  the  long  dream  of  ages  true  at  last  ? 

Thank  God  !  the  people's  choice  was  just, 
The  one  man  equal  to  his  trust, 

Wise  beyond  lore,  and  without  weakness 
good, 

Calm  in  the  strength  of  flawless  rectitude  ! 

His  rule  of  justice,  order,  peace, 
Made  possible  the  world's  release  ; 
Taught  prince  and  serf  that  power  is  but  a 

trust, 

And  rule  alone,  which  serves  the  ruled,  is 
just  ; 

That  Freedom  generous  is,  but  strong 
In  hate  of  fraud  and  selfish  wrong, 
Pretence  that  turns  her  holy  truth  to  lies, 
And  lawless  license  masking  in  her  guise. 

Land  of  his  love  !  with  one  glad  voice 
Let  thy  great  sisterhood  rejoice  ; 
A  century's  suns  o'er  thee  have  risen  and  set, 
And,  God  be  praised,  we  are  one  nation  yet. 

And  still  we  trust  the  years  to  be 
Shall  prove  his  hope  was  destiny, 
Leaving  our  flag,  with  all  its  added  stars, 
Unrent  by  faction  and  unstained  by  wars. 

Lo  !  where  with  patient  toil  he  nursed 
And  trained  the  new-set  plant  at  first, 
The  widening  branches  of  a  stately  tree 
Stretch  from  the  sunrise  to  the  sunset  sea. 

And  in  its  broad  and  sheltering  shade, 
Sitting  with  none  to  make  afraid, 
Were  we  now  silent,  through  each  mighty 

limb, 

The  winds  of  heaven  would  sing  the  praise 
of  him. 


Our  first  and  best !  —  his  ashes  lie 
Beneath  his  own  Virginian  sky. 

Forgive,  forget,  O  true  and  just  and  brave. 

The   storm    that   swept   above  thy  sacred 
grave  ! 

For,  ever  in  the  awful  strife 
And  dark  hours  of  the  nation's  life, 
Through    the   fierce    tumult    pierced    his 

warning  word, 

Their   father's   voice    his   erring   children 
heard ! 

The   change   for  which  he   prayed  and 

sought 

In  that  sharp  agony  was  wrought  ; 
No  partial  interest  draws  its  alien  line 
'Twixt  North  and  South,  the  cypress  and 
the  pine  ! 

One  people  now,  all  doubt  beyond, 
His  name  shall  be  our  Union-bond  ; 

We  lift  our  hands  to  Heaven,  and  here  and 
now 

Take  on  our  lips  the  old  Centennial  vow. 

For  rule  and  trust  must  needs  be  ours  ; 

Chooser  and  chosen  both  are  powers 
Equal  in  service  as  in  rights  ;  the  claim 
Of  Duty  rests  on  each  and  all  the  same. 

Then  let  the  sovereign  millions,  where 
Our  banner  floats  in  sun  and  air, 

From   the    warm   palm-lands   to   Alaska's 
cold, 

Repeat  with  us  the  pledge  a  century  old  ! 


THE   CAPTAIN'S   WELL 

The  story  of  the  shipwreck  of  Captain  Val 
entine  Bagley,  on  the  coast  of  Arabia,  and  his 
suffering's  in  the  desert,  has  been  familiar  from 
my  childhood.  It  has  been  partially  told  in  the 
singularly  beautiful  lines  of  my  friend,  Har 
riet  Prescott  Spofford,  on  the  occasion  of  a  pub 
lic  celebration  at  the  Newburyport  Library. 
To  the  charm  and  felicity  of  her  verse,  as  far 
as  it  goes,  nothing  can  be  added ;  but  in  the 
following  ballad  I  have  endeavored  to  give  a 
fuller  detail  of  the  touching  incident  upon 
which  it  is  founded. 

FROM  pain  and  peril,  by  land  and  main, 
The  shipwrecked  sailor  came  back  again  ; 


THE   CAPTAIN'S   WELL 


469 


And  like  one  from  the  dead,  the  threshold 

crossed 
Of  his  wondering  home,  that  had  mourned 

him  lost, 

Where  he  sat  once  more  with  his  kith  and 

kin, 
And  welcomed  his  neighbors  thronging  in. 

But  when  morning  came  he  called  for  his 

spade. 
"  I  must  pay  my  debt  to  the  Lord,"  he  said. 

"  Why  dig  you  here  ?  "  asked  the  passer 
by  ; 

"  Is  there  gold  or  silver  the  road  so 
nigh?" 

"  No,  friend,"  he   answered  :  "  but  under 

this  sod 
Is  the  blessed  water,  the  wine  of  God." 

"  Water  !  the  Powow  is  at  your  back, 
And  right  before  you  the  Merrimac, 

"  And  look  you  up,  or  look  you  down, 
There  's   a   well-sweep   at   every   door   in 
town." 

"True,"  he   said,  "we   have  wells  of  our 

own  ; 
But  this  I  dig  for  the  Lord  alone." 

Said   the    other  :    "  This   soil   is   dry,  you 

know, 
I  doubt  if  a  spring  can  be  found  below  ; 

"  You  had  better  consult,  before  you  dig, 
Some  water- witch,  with  a  hazel  twig." 

"  No,  wet  or  dry,  I  will  dig  it  here, 
Shallow  or  deep,  if  it  takes  a  year. 

"  In  the  Arab  desert,  where  shade  is  none, 
The  waterless  land  of  sand  and  sun, 

"  Under  the  pitiless,  brazen  sky 

My  burning  throat  as  the  sand  was  dry  ; 

"  My  crazed  brain  listened  in  fever  dreams 
For  plash  of  buckets  and  ripple  of  streams  ; 

"  And  opening  my  eyes  to  the  blinding  glare, 
And  my  lips  to  the  breath  of  the  blistering 
air. 


"  Tortured  alike  by  the  heavens  and  earth, 
I  cursed,  like  Job,  the  day  of  my  birth. 

"  Then  something  tender,  and  sad,  and  mild 
As  a  mother's  voice  to  her  wandering  child, 

"  Rebuked    my    frenzy  ;    and   bowing   my 

head, 
I  prayed  as  I  never  before  had  prayed  : 

"  Pity  me,  God  !  for  I  die  of  thirst  ,- 
Take  me  out  of  this  land  accurst  • 

"  And  if  ever  I  reach  my  home  again, 
Where  earth  has  springs,  and  the  sky  has 
rain, 

"  I  will  dig  a  well  for  the  passers-by, 
And  none  shall  suffer  from  thirst  as  I. 

"  I  saw,  as  I  prayed,  my  home  once  more, 
The  house,  the  barn,  the  elms  by  tbe  door, 

"The   grass -lined   road,    that    riverward 

wound, 
The  tall  slate  stones  of  the  burying-ground, 

"  The  belfry  and  steeple  on  meeting-house 

hill, 
The  brook  with  its  dam,  and  gray  grist  mill, 

"And  I  knew  in  that  vision   beyond  the 

sea, 
The  very  place  where  my  well  must  be. 

"  God  heard  my  prayer  in  that  evil  day  ; 
He  led  my  feet  in  their  homeward  way, 

"  From  false  mirage  and  dried-up  well, 
And  the  hot  sand  storms  of  a  land  of  hell, 

"  Till  I  saw  at  last  through  the  coast-hill's 

gaP> 
A  city  held  in  its  stony  lap, 

"  The  mosques  and  the  domes  of  scorched 

Muscat, 
And  my  heart  leaped  up  with  joy  thereat  ; 

"  For  there  was  a  ship  at  anchor  lying, 
A  Christian  flag  at  its  mast-head  flying, 

"And  sweetest  of  sounds  to  my  homesick 

ear 
Was  my  native  tongue  in  the  sailor's  cheer. 


470 


AT   SUNDOWN 


"Now  the   Lord  be  thanked,    I  am  back 

again, 
Where  earth  has  springs,  and  the  skies  have 

rain, 

"  And  the  well  I  promised  by  Oman's  Sea, 
I  am  digging  for  him  in  Amesbury." 

His  kindred  wept,  and  his  neighbors  said  : 
"The  poor  old  captain  is  out  of  his  head." 

But  from  morn  to  noon,  and  from  noon  to 

night, 
He  toiled  at  his  task  with  main  and  might  ; 

And  when  at  last,  from  the  loosened  earth, 
Under  his  spade  the  stream  gushed  forth, 

And  fast  as  he  climbed  to  his  deep  well's 

brim, 
The  water  he  dug  for  followed  him, 

He  shouted  for  joy  :    "  I   have   kept  my 

word, 
And  here  is  the  well  I  promised  the  Lord  !  " 

The  long  years  came   and  the  long  years 

went, 
And  he  sat  by  his  roadside  well  content  ; 

He  watched  the  travellers,  heat- oppressed, 
Pause  by  the  way  to  drink  and  rest, 

And   the   sweltering   horses    dip,    as    they 

drank, 
Their  nostrils  deep  in  the  cool,  sweet  tank, 

And  grateful  at  heart,  his  memory  went 
Back  to  that  waterless  Orient, 

And  the  blessed  answer  of  prayer,  which 

came 
To  the  earth  of  iron  and  sky  of  flame. 

And  when  a  wayfarer  weary  and  hot, 
Kept  to  the  mid  road,  pausing  not 

For   the   well's    refreshing,  he    shook    his 

head; 
"He  don't  know  the  value  of  water,"  he 

said  : 

"  Had  he  prayed  for  a  drop,  as  I  have  done, 
In  the  desert  circle  of  sand  and  sun, 


"  He  would  drink  and  rest,  and  go  home  to 

tell 
That  God's  best  gift  is  the  wayside  well ! " 


AN    OUTDOOR  RECEPTION 

The  substance  of  these  lines,  hastily  pen 
cilled  several  years  ago,  I  find  among  such  of 
my  unprinted  scraps  as  have  escaped  the  waste- 
basket  and  the  fire.  In  transcribing  it  I  have 
made  some  changes,  additions,  and  omissions. 

Ox   these    green   banks,    where   falls    too 

soon 

The  shade  of  Autumn's  afternoon, 
The  south  wind  blowing  soft  and  sweet, 
The  water  gliding  at  my  feet, 
The  distant  northern  range  uplit 
By  the  slant  sunshine  over  it, 
With  changes  of  the  mountain  mist 
From  tender  blush  to  amethyst, 
The  valley's  stretch  of  shade  and  gleam 
Fair  as  in  Mirza's  Bagdad  dream, 
With  glad  young  faces  smiling  near 
And  merry  voices  in  my  ear, 
I  sit,  methinks,  as  Hafiz  might 
In  Iran's  Garden  of  Delight. 
For  Persian  roses  blushing  red, 
Aster  and  gentian  bloom  instead  ; 
For  Shiraz  wine,  this  mountain  air  ; 
For  feast,  the  blueberries  which  I  share 
With  one  who  proffers  with  stained  hands 
Her  gleanings  from  yon  pasture  lands, 
Wild  fruit  that  art  and  culture  spoil, 
The  harvest  of  an  untilled  soil ; 
And  with  her  one  whose  tender  eyes 
Reflect  the  change  of  April  skies, 
Midway  'twixt  child  and  maiden  yet, 
Fresh  as  Spring's  earliest  violet  ; 
And  one  whose  look  and  voice  and  ways 
Make  where  she  goes  idyllic  days  ; 
And  one  whose  sweet,  still  countenance 
Seems  dreamful  of  a  child's  romance  ; 
And  others,  welcome  as  are  these, 
Like  and  unlike,  varieties 
Of  pearls  on  nature's  chaplet  strung, 
And  all  are  fair,  for  all  are  young. 
Gathered  from  seaside  cities  old, 
From  midland  prairie,  lake,  and  wold, 
From   the  great  wheat-fields,  which  mighi 

feed 

The  hunger  of  a  world  at  need, 
In  healthful  change  of  rest  and  play 
Their  school-vacations  glide  away. 


BURNING   DRIFT-WOOD 


47' 


No  critics  these  :  they  only  see 
An  old  and  kindly  friend  in  me, 
In  whose  amused,  indulgent  look 
Their  innocent  mirth  has  no  rebuke. 
They  scarce  can  know  my  rugged  rhymes, 
The  harsher  songs  of  evil  times, 
Nor  graver  themes  in  minor  keys 
Of  life's  and  death's  solemnities  •• 
But  haply,  as  they  bear  in  mind 
Some  verse  of  lighter,  happier  kind.,  — 
Hints  of  the  boyhood  of  the  man, 
Youth  viewed  from  life's  meridian, 
Half  seriously  and  half  in  play 
My  pleasant  interviewers  pay 
Their  visit,  with  no  fell  intent 
Of  taking  notes  and  punishment. 

As  yonder  solitary  pine 
Is  ringed  below  with  flower  and  vine, 
More  favored  than  that  lonely  tree, 
The  bloom  of  girlhood  circles  me. 
In  such  an  atmosphere  of  youth 
I  half  forget  my  age's  truth  ; 
The  shadow  of  my  life's  long  date 
Runs  backward  on  the  dial-plate, 
Until  it  seems  a  step  might  span 
The  gulf  between  the  boy  and  man. 

My  young  friends  smile,  as  if  some  jay 
On  bleak  December's  leafless  spray 
Essayed  to  sing  the  songs  of  May. 
Well,  let  them  smile,  and  live  to  know, 
When  their  brown  locks  are  flecked  with 

snow, 

'T  is  tedious  to  be  always  sage 
And  pose  the  dignity  of  age, 
While  so  much  of  our  early  lives 
On  memory's  playground  still  survives, 
And  owns,  as  at  the  present  hour, 
The  spell  of  youth's  magnetic  power. 

But  though  I  feel,  with  Solomon, 

'T  is  pleasant  to  behold  the  sun, 

1  would  not  if  I  could  repeat 

A  life  which  still  is  good  and  sweet  ; 

I  keep  in  age,  as  in  my  prime, 

A  not  uncheerful  step  with  time, 

And,  grateful  for  all  blessings  sent, 

I  go  the  common  way,  content 

To  make  no  new  experiment. 

On  easy  terms  with  law  and  fate, 

For  what  must  be  I  calmly  wait, 

And  trust  the  path  I  cannot  see,  — 

That  God  is  good  sufficeth  me. 

And  when  at  last  on  life's  strange  play 


The  curtain  falls,  I  only  pray 
That  hope  may  lose  itself  in  truth, 
And  age  in  Heaven's  immortal  youth, 
And  all  our  loves  and  longing  prove 
The  foretaste  of  diviner  love  ! 

The  day  is  done.     Its  afterglow 

Along  the  west  is  burning  low. 

My  visitors,  like  birds,  have  flown  ; 

I  hear  their  voices,  fainter  grown, 

And  dimly  through  the  dusk  I  see 

Their  kerchiefs  wave  good-night  to  me,  —* 

Light  hearts  of  girlhood,  knowing  naught 

Of  all  the  cheer  their  coming  brought  ; 

And,  in  their  going,  unaware 

Of  silent-following  feet  of  prayer  : 

Heaven  make  their  budding  promise  good 

With  flowers  of  gracious  womanhood  ! 


R.   S.   S.    AT   DEER    ISLAND   ON 
THE   MERRIMAC 

MAKE,  for  he  loved  thee  well,  our  Merri- 

mac, 
From  wave   and  shore   a  low  and  long 

lament 
For  him  whose  last  look  sought  thee,  as 

he  went 
The   unknown   way   from    which   no   step 

comes  back. 
And   ye,   O   ancient   pine-trees,  at    whose 

feet 

He  watched  in  life  the  sunset's  redden 
ing  glow, 
Let  the  soft   south  wind   through   your 

needles  blow 

A  fitting  requiem  tenderly  and  sweet  ! 
No  fonder  lover  of  all  lovely  things 

Shall  walk  where    once    he    walked,  no 

smile  more  glad 
Greet  friends  than  his  who  friends  in  all 

men  had, 
Whose   pleasant   memory   to    that    Island 

clings, 

Where  a  dear  mourner  in  the  home  he  left 
Of  love's  sweet  solace  cannot  be  bereft. 


BURNING    DRIFT-WOOD 

BEFORE  my  drift-wood  fire  I  sit, 
And  see,  with  every  waif  I  burn, 

Old  dreams  and  fancies  coloring  it, 
And  folly's  unlaid  ghosts  return. 


472 


AT   SUNDOWN 


May  fitly  feed  my  drift-wood  fire, 

And  warm  the  hands  that  age  has  chilled. 

Whatever  perished  with  my  ships, 
I  only  know  the  best  remains  ; 

A  song  of  praise  is  on  my  lips 

For  losses  which  are  now  my  gains. 

Heap  high  my  hearth  !     No  worth  is  lost  J 
N"  wisdom  with  the  folly  dies. 

Burn  on,  poor  shreds,  your  holocaust 
Shall  be  my  evening  sacrifice  ! 

Far  more  than  all  I  dared  to  dream, 
Unsought  before  my  door  I  see  ; 

On  wings  of  fire  and  steeds  of  steam 
The  world's  great  wonders  come  to  me, 

And  holier  signs,  unmarked  before, 
Of  Love  to  seek  and  Power  to  save,  — 

The  righting  of  the  wronged  and  poor, 
The  man  evolving  from  the  slave  ; 

And  life,  no  longer  chance  or  fate, 
Safe  in  the  gracious  Fatherhood. 

I  fold  o'er-wearied  hands  and  wait, 
In  full  assurance  of  the  good. 

And  well  the  waiting  time  must  be, 
Though  brief  or  long  its  granted  days, 

If  Faith  and  Hope  and  Charity 

Sit  by  my  evening  hearth-fire's  blaze. 

And  with  them,  friends  whom  Heaven  has 
spared, 

Whose  love  my  heart  has  comforted, 
And,  sharing  all  my  joys,  has  shared 

My  tender  memories  of  the  dead,  — 

Dear  souls  who  left  us  lonely  here, 

Bound  on    their    last,    long    voyage,    to 
whom 

We,  day  by  day,  are  drawing  near, 
Where  every  bark  has  sailing  room. 

I  know  the  solemn  monotone 

Of  waters  calling  unto  me  ; 
I  know  from  whence  the  airs  have  blown 

That  whisper  of  the  Eternal  Sea. 

As  low  my  fires  of  drift-wood  burn, 
I  hear  that  sea's  deep  sounds  increase, 

And,  fair  in  sunset  light,  discern 
Its  mirage-lifted  Isles  of  Peace. 


O  ships  of  mine,  whose  swift  keels  cleft 
The  enchanted  sea  on  which  they  sailed, 

Are  these  poor  fragments  only  left 
Of  vain  desires  and  hopes  that  failed  ? 

Did  I  not  watch  from  them  the  light 
Of  sunset  on  my  towers  in  Spain, 

And  see,  far  off,  uploom  in  sight 

The  Fortunate  Isles  I  might  not  gain  ? 

Did  sudden  lift  of  fog  reveal 

Arcadia's  vales  of  song  and  spring, 

And  did  I  pass,  with  grazing  keel, 
The  rocks  whereon  the  sirens  sing  ? 

Have  I  not  drifted  hard  upon 

The  unmapped  regions  lost  to  man, 

The  cJoud-pitched  tents  of  Prester  John, 
The  palace  domes  of  Kubla  Khan  ? 

Did  land  winds  blow  from  jasmine  flowers, 
Where  Youth  the  ageless  Fountain  fills  ? 

Did  Love  make  sign  from  rose  blown  bow 
ers, 
And  gold  from  Eldorado's  hills  ? 

Alas  !  the  gallant  ships,  that  sailed 
On  blind  Adventure's  errand  sent, 

Howe'er  they  laid  their  courses,  failed 
To  reach  the  haven  of  Content. 

And  of  my  ventures,  those  alone 

Which  Love  had  freighted,  safely  sped, 

Seeking  a  good  beyond  my  own, 
By  clear-eyed  Duty  piloted. 

0  mariners,  hoping  still  to  meet 
The  luck  Arabian  voyagers  met, 

And  find  in  Bagdad's  moonlit  street, 
Harouu  al  Raschid  walking  yet, 

Take  with  you,  on  your  Sea  of  Dreams, 
The  fair,  fond  fancies  dear  to  youth. 

1  turn  from  all  that  only  seems, 

And  seek  the  sober  grounds  of  truth. 

What  matter  that  it  is  not  May, 

That  birds  have    flown,  and   trees    are 

bare, 
That  darker  grows  the  shortening  day, 

And  colder  blows  the  wintry  air  ! 

The  wrecks  of  passion  and  desire, 
The  castles  I  no  more  rebuild, 


HAVERHILL 


473 


O.  W.  HOLMES  ON   HIS    EIGHTI 
ETH   BIRTHDAY 

CLIMBING  a  path  which  leads  back  never 

more 
We  heard  behind  his  footsteps  and  his 

cheer  ; 
Now,  face  to  face,  we  greet  him  standing 

here 

Upon  the  lonely  summit  of  Fourscore  ! 
Welcome  to  us,  o'er  whom  the  lengthened 

day 

Is  closing  and  the  shadows  colder  grow, 
His  genial  presence,  like  an  afterglow, 
Following  the  one  just  vanishing  away. 
Long  be  it  ere  the  table  shall  be  set 
For  the  last  breakfast  of  the  Autocrat, 
And  love  repeat  with  smiles  and  tears 

thereat 
His  own  sweet  songs  that  time  shall  not 

forget. 

Waiting  with  us  the  call  to  come  up  higher, 
Life  is  not  less,  the  heavens  are  only  nigher  ! 


JAMES  RUSSELL  LOWELL 

FROM  purest  wells  of  English  undefiled 
None    deeper    drank    than    he,    the   New 

World's  child, 
Who  in  the   language  of  their  farm-fields 

spoke 

The  wit  and  wisdom  of  New  England  folk, 
Shaming  a  monstrous  wrong.     The  world 
wide  laugh 
Provoked  thereby  might  well  have  shaken 

half 

The  walls  of  Slavery  down,  ere  yet  the  ball 
And  mine  of  battle  overthrew  them  all. 


HAVERHILL 
1640-1890 

Read  at  the  Celebration  of  the  Two  Hun 
dred  and  Fiftieth  Anniversary  of  the  Citv, 
July  2,  1890. 

O  RIVER  winding  to  the  sea  ! 
We  call  the  old  time  back  to  thee  ; 
From  forest  paths  and  water-ways 
The  century-woven  veil  we  raise. 


The  voices  of  to-day  are  dumb, 
Unheard  its  sounds  that  go  and  come  ; 
We  listen,  through  long-lapsing  years, 
To  footsteps  of  the  pioneers. 

Gone  steepled  town  and  cultured  plain, 

The  wilderness  returns  again, 

The  drear,  untrodden  solitude, 

The  gloom  and  mystery  of  the  wood  ! 

Once  more  the  bear  and  panther  prowl, 
The  wolf  repeats  his  hungry  howl, 
And,  peering  through  his  leafy  screen, 
The  Indian's  copper  face  is  seen. 

We  see,  their  rude-built  huts  beside, 
Grave  men  and  women  anxious-eyed, 
And  wistful  youth  remembering  still 
Dear  homes  in  England's  Haverhill. 

We  summon  forth  to  mortal  view 
Dark  Passaquo  and  Saggahew,  — 
Wild  chiefs,  who  owned  the  mighty  sway 
Of  wizard  Passaconaway. 

Weird  memories  of  the  border  town, 
By  old  tradition  handed  down, 
In  chance  and  change  before  us  pass 
Like  pictures  in  a  magic  glass,  — 

The  terror  of  the  midnight  raid, 
The  death-concealing  ambuscade, 
The  winter  march,  through  deserts  wild, 
Of  captive  mother,  wife,  and  child. 

Ah  !  bleeding  hands  alone  subdued 
And  tamed  the  savage  habitude 
Of  forests  hiding  beasts  of  prey, 
And  human  shapes  as  fierce  as  they. 

Slow  from  the  plough  the  woods  withdrew, 
Slowly  each  year  the  corn-lands  grew  ; 
Nor  fire,  nor  frost,  nor  foe  could  kill 
The  Saxon  energy  of  will. 

And  never  in  the  hamlet's  bound 
Was  lack  of  sturdy  manhood  found, 
And  never  failed  the  kindred  good 
Of  brave  and  helpful  womanhood. 

That  hamlet  now  a  city  is, 
Its  log-built  huts  are  palaces  ; 
The  wood-path  of  the  settler's  cow 
Is  Traffic's  crowded  highway  now. 


474 


AT   SUNDOWN 


And  far  and  wide  it  stretches  still, 
Along  its  southward  sloping  hill, 
And  overlooks  on  either  hand 
A  rich  and  many-watered  land. 

And,  gladdening  all  the  landscape,  fair 

As  Pison  was  to  Eden's  pair, 

Our  river  to  its  valley  brings 

The  blessing  of  its  mountain  springs. 

And  Nature  holds  with  narrowing  space, 
From    mart    and    crowd,    her    old  -  time 

grace, 

And  guards  with  fondly  jealous  arms 
The  wild  growths  of  outlying  farms. 

Her  sunsets  on  Kenoza  fall, 
Her  autumn  leaves  by  Saltonstall  ; 
No  lavished  gold  can  richer  make 
Her  opulence  of  hill  and  lake. 

Wise  was  the  choice  which  led  our  sires 
To  kindle  here  their  household  fires, 
And  share  the  large  content  of  all 
Whose  lines  in  pleasant  places  fall. 

More  dear,  as  years  on  years  advance, 
We  prize  the  old  inheritance, 
And  feel,  as  far  and  wide  we  roam, 
That  all  we  seek  we  leave  at  home. 

Our  palms  are  pines,  our  oranges 
Are  apples  on  our  orchard  trees  ; 
Our  thrushes  are  our  nightingales, 
Our  larks  the  blackbirds  of  our  vales. 

No  incense  which  the  Orient  burns 
Is  sweeter  than  our  hillside  ferns  ; 
What  tropic  splendor  can  outvie 
Our  autumn  woods,  our  sunset  sky  ? 

£f ,  where  the  slow  years  came  and  went, 
And  left  not  affluence,  but  content, 
Now  flashes  in  our  dazzled  eyes 
The  electric  light  of  enterprise  ; 

And  if  the  old  idyllic  ease 

Seems  lost  in  keen  activities, 

And  crowded  workshops  now  replace 

The  hearth's  and  farm-field's  rustic  grace  ; 

No  dull,  mechanic  round  of  toil 
Life's  morning  charm  can  quite  despoil ; 
And  youth  and  beauty,  hand  in  hand, 
Will  always  find  enchanted  land. 


No  task  is  ill  where  hand  and  brain 
And  skill  and  strength  have  equal  gain, 
And  each  shall  each  in  honor  hold, 
And  simple  manhood  outweigh  gold. 

Earth  shall  be  near  to  Heaven  when  all 
That  severs  man  from  man  shall  fall, 
For,  here  or  there,  salvation's  plan 
Alone  is  love  of  God  and  man. 

0  dwellers  by  the  Merrimac, 

The  heirs  of  centuries  at  your  back, 
Still  reaping  where  you  have  not  sown, 
A  broader  field  is  now  your  own. 

Hold  fast  your  Puritan  heritage, 
But  let  the  free  thought  of  the  age 
Its  light  and  hope  and  sweetness  add 
To  the  stern  faith  the  fathers  had. 

Adrift  on  Time's  returnless  tide, 
As  waves  that  follow  waves,  we  glide. 
God  grant  we  leave  upon  the  shore 
Some  waif  of  good  it  lacked  before  ; 

Some  seed,  or  flower,  or  plant  of  worth, 
Some  added  beauty  to  the  earth  ; 
Some  larger  hope,  some  thought  to  make 
The  sad  world  happier  for  its  sake. 

As  tenants  of  uncertain  stay, 
So  may  we  live  our  little  day 
That  only  grateful  hearts  shall  fill 
The  homes  we  leave  in  Haverhill. 

The  singer  of  a  farewell  rhyme, 
Upon  whose  outmost  verge  of  time 
The  shades  of  night  are  falling  down, 

1  pray,  God  bless  the  good  old  town  ! 

TO    G.    G. 

AN   AUTOGRAPH 

The  daughter  of  Daniel  Gurteen,  Esq.,  dele 
gate  from  Haverhill.  England,  to  the  two  hun 
dred  and  fiftieth  annivei-sary  celebration  of  Ha 
verhill,  Massachusetts.  The  Rev.  John  Ward 
of  the  former  place  and  many  of  his  old  par 
ishioners  were  the  pioneer  settlers  of  the  new 
town  on  the  Merrimac. 

GRACEFUL   in  name   and   in   thyself,    our 

river 

None  fairer  saw  in  John  Ward's  pilgrim 
flock, 


THE  BIRTHDAY   WREATH 


475 


Proof  that   upon    their    century-rooted 

stock 
The  English  roses  bloom  as  fresh  as  ever. 

Take  the  warm  welcome    of  new   friends 

with  thee, 
And   listening   to   thy    home's    familiar 

chime 

Dream  that  thou  hearest,  with  it  keep 
ing  time, 

The   bells  on  Merrimac  sound  across   the 
sea. 

Think  of  our  thrushes,  when  the  lark  sings 

clear, 

Of  our  sweet  Mayflowers  when  the  dai 
sies  bloom  ; 

And  bear  to  our  and  thy  ancestral  home 
The  kindly  greeting  of  its  children  here. 

Say   that  our    love  survives  the    severing 

strain  ; 
That  the  New  England,   with  the  Old, 

holds  fast 
The  proud,  fond  memories  of  a  common 

past  ; 
Unbroken  still  the  ties  of  blood  remain  ! 


INSCRIPTION 

For  the  bass-relief  by  Preston  Powers,  carved 
upon  the  hug-e  boulder  in  Denver  Park,  Col., 
and  representing  the  Last  Indian  and  the  Last 
Bison. 

THE  eagle,  stooping  from  yon  snow-blown 

peaks, 

For  the  wild  hunter  and  the  bison  seeks, 
In  the   changed   world   below  ;  and  finds 

alone 
Their   graven    semblance    in   the   eternal 

stone. 


LYDIA   H.    SIGOURNEY 

Inscription  on  her  Memorial  Tablet  in  Christ 
Church  at  Hartford,  Conn. 

SHE  sang  alone,  ere  womanhood  had  known 
The  gift  of  song  which  fills  the  air  to 
day  : 

Tender  and  sweet,  a  music  all  her  own 
May  fitly  linger  where  she  knelt  to  pray. 


MILTON 

Inscription  on  the  Memorial  Window  in  St. 
Margaret's  Church,  Westminster,  the  gift  of 
George  W.  Childs,  of  America. 

THE  new  world  honors   him   whose   lofty 

plea 
For  England's  freedom  made  her  own 

more  sure, 
Whose  song,  immortal  as  its   theme,  shall 

be 

Their  common  freehold  while  both  worlds 
endure. 


THE  BIRTHDAY  WREATH 
December  17,  1891. 

BLOSSOM  and  greenness,  making  all 
The  winter  birthday  tropical 

And  the  plain  Quaker  parlors  gay, 
Have  gone  from  bracket,  stand,  and  wall  ; 
We  saw  them  fade,  and  droop,  and  fall, 

And  laid  them  tenderly  away. 

WTiite  virgin  lilies,  mignonette, 
Blown  rose,  and  pink,  and  violet, 

A  breath  of  fragrance  passing  by  ; 
Visions  of  beauty  and  decay. 
Colors  and  shapes  that  could  not  stay, 

The  fairest,  sweetest,  first  to  die. 

But  still  this  rustic  wreath  of  mine, 
Of  acorned  oak  and  needled  pine, 

And  lighter  growths  of  forest  lands, 
Woven  and  wound  with  careful  pains, 
And  tender  thoughts  and  prayers,  remains, 

As  when   it   dropped   from  love's  dear 
hands. 

And  not  unfitly  garlanded, 

Is  he,  who,  country-born  and  bred, 

Welcomes  the  sylvan  ring  which  gives 
A  feeling  of  old  summer  days, 
The  wild  delight  of  woodland  ways, 

The  glory  of  the  autumn  leaves. 

And,  if  the  flowery  meed  of  song 
To  other  bards  may  well  belong, 

Be  his,  who  from  the  farm-field  spoke 
A  word  for  Freedom  when  her  need 
Was  not  of  dulcimer  and  reed, 

This  Isthmian  wreath  of  pine  and  oak 


476 


AT   SUNDOWN 


THE  WIND  OF  MARCH 

UP  from   the  sea  the  wild  north  wind  is 

blowing 

Under  the  sky's  gray  arch  ; 
Smiling,    I  watch  the  shaken  elm-boughs, 

knowing 
It  is  the  wind  of  March. 

Between  the  passing  and  the  coming  season, 

This  stormy  interlude 
Gives  to  our  winter-wearied  hearts  a  reason 

For  trustful  gratitude. 

Welcome  to  waiting  ears   its   harsh  fore 
warning 

Of  lighfe  and  warmth  to  come, 
The   longed-for  joy  of   Nature's   Easter 

morning, 
The  earth  arisen  in  bloom  ! 

In  the   loud   tumult  winter's   strength   is 
breaking  ; 

I  listen  to  the  sound, 
As  to  a  voice  or  resurrection,  waking 

To  life  the  dead,  cold  ground. 

Between  these  gusts,  to  the  soft   lapse   I 

hearken 

Of  rivulets  on  their  way  ; 
I    see    these    tossed   and  naked   tree-tops 

darken 
With  the  fresh  leaves  of  May. 

This  roar  of  storm,  this  sky  so  gray  and 
lowering 

Invite  the  airs  of  Spring, 
A  warmer  sunshine  over  fields  of  flowering, 

The  bluebird's  song  and  wing. 

Closely  behind,   the  Gulf's   warm  breezes 

follow 

This  northern  hurricane, 
And,  borne  thereon,  the  bobolink  and  swal 
low 
Shall  visit  us  again. 

And,  in  green  wood-paths,  in  the  kine-fed 

pasture 

And  by  the  whispering  rills, 
Shall  flowers  repeat  the  lesson  of  the  Mas 
ter, 
Taught  on  his  Syrian  hills. 


Blow,  then,  wild  wind  !  thy  roar  shall  end 

in  singing, 

Thy  chill  in  blossoming  ; 
Come,    like    Bethesda's    troubling    angel, 

bringing 
The  healing  of  the  Spring. 


BETWEEN  THE  GATES 

BETWEEN  the  gates  of  birth  and  death 
An  old  and  saintly  pilgrim  passed, 

With  look  of  one  who  witnesseth 
The  long-sought  goal  at  last. 

"  0  thou  whose  reverent  feet  have  found 
The  Master's  footprints  in  thy  way 

And  walked  thereon  as  holy  ground, 
A  boon  of  thee  I  pray. 

"  My  lack  would  borrow  thy  excess, 
My  feeble  faith  the  strength  of  thine  ; 

I  need  thy  soul's  white  saintliness 
To  hide  the  stains  of  mine. 

"  The  grace  and  favor  else  denied 
May  well  be  granted  for  thy  sake." 

So,  tempted,  doubting,  sorely  tried, 
A  younger  pilgrim  spake. 

"  Thy  prayer,  my  son,  transcends  my  gift  j 
No  power  is  mine,"  the  sage  replied, 

"  The  burden  of  a  soul  to  lift 
Or  stain  of  sin  to  hide. 

"  Howe'er  the  outward  life  may  seem, 
For  pardoning  grace  we  all  must  pray  ; 

No  man  his  brother  can  redeem 
Or  a  soul's  ransom  pay. 

"  Not  always  age  is  growth  of  good  ; 

Its  years  have  losses  with  their  gain  • 
Against  some  evil  youth  withstood 

Weak  hands  may  strive  in  vain. 

"  With  deeper  voice  than  any  speech 
Of  mortal  lips  from  man  to  man, 

What  earth's  unwisdom  may  not  teach 
The  Spirit  only  can. 

"  Make  thou  that  holy  guide  thine  own, 
And  following  where  it  leads  the  way 

The  known  shall  lapse  in  the  unknown 
As  twilight  into  day. 


TO   OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 


477 


"  The  best  of  earth  shall  still  remain, 
And  heaven's  eternal  years  shall  prove 

That  life  and  death,  and  joy  and  pain, 
Are  ministers  of  Love." 


THE    LAST   EVE    OF    SUMMER 

SUMMER'S  last  sun  nigh  unto  setting  shines 
Through  yon  columnar  pines, 

And    on    the    deepening   shadows   of    the 

lawn 
Its  golden  lines  are  drawn. 

l)reaming  of  long  gone  summer  days  like 
this, 

Feeling  the  wind's  soft  kiss, 
Grateful  and  glad  that  failing  ear  and  sight 

Have  still  their  old  delight, 

I  sit  alone,  and   watch   the    warm,    sweet 
day 

Lapse  tenderly  away  ; 
A.nd,  wistful,  with  a  feeling  of  forecast, 

I  ask,  "  Is  this  the  last  ? 

"  Will  nevermore  for  me  the  seasons  run 
Their  round,  and  will  the  sun 

Of  ardent  summers  yet  to  come  forget 
For  me  to  rise  and  set  ?  " 

Thou  shouldst  be  here,  or  I  should  be  with 

thee 

Wherever  thou  mayst  be, 
Lips  mute,  hands  clasped,   in    silences  of 

speech 
Each  answering  unto  each. 

For  this  still  hour,  this  sense  of  mystery 
far 

Beyond  the  evening  star, 
No  words  outworn  suffice  on  lip  or  scroll  : 

The  soul  would  fain  with  soul 

Wait,  while  these  few  swift-passing-  davs 
fulfil 

The  wise-disposing  Will, 
And,  in  the  evening  as  at  morning,  trust 

The  All-Merciful  and  Just. 

The  solemn  joy  that  soul-communion  feels 

Immortal  life  reveals  ; 
And  human  love,  its  prophecy  and  sign, 

Interprets  love  divine. 


Come  then,  in  thought,  if  that  alone  may  be, 
O  friend  !  and  bring  with  thee 

Thy  calm  assurance  of  transcendent  Spheres 
And  the  Eternal  Years  ! 


TO    OLIVER   WENDELL   HOLMES 
STH  Mo.  29TH,  1892 

[This,  the  last  of  Mr.  Whittier's  poems,  was 
written  but  a  few  weeks  before  his  death.] 

AMONG  the  thousands  who  with  hail  and 
cheer 

Will  welcome  thy  new  year, 
How  few  of  all  have  passed,  as  thou  and  I, 

So  many  milestones  by  ! 

We  have   grown   old   together  ;  we  have 
seen, 

Our  youth  and  age  between, 
Two  generations  leave  us,  and  to-day 

We  with  the  third  hold  way, 

Loving  and  loved.     If  thought  must  back 
ward  run 

To  those  who,  one  by  one, 
In  the  great  silence  and  the  dark  beyond 

Vanished  with  farewells  fond, 

Unseen,  not  lost ;  our  grateful   memories 

still 

Their  vacant  places  fill, 
And  with  the  full-voiced  greeting  of  new 

friends 
A  tenderer  whisper  blends. 

Linked  close  in  a  pathetic  brotherhood 

Of  mingled  ill  and  good, 
Of  joy  and  grief,  of  grandeur  and  of  shame, 

For  pity  more  than  blame,  — 

The  gift  is  thine  the  weary  world  to  make 

More  cheerful  for  thy  sake, 
Soothing  the  ears  its  Miserere  pains, 

With  the  old  Hellenic  strains, 

Lighting  the  sullen  face  of  discontent 
With  smiles  for  blessing  sent. 

Enough  of  selfish  wailing  has  been  had, 
Thank  God  !  for  notes  more  glad. 

Life  is  indeed  no  holiday  ;  therein 
Are  want,  and  woe,  and  sin, 


478 


AT   SUNDOWN 


Death  and  its  nameless  fears,  and  over  all 
Our  pitying  tears  must  fall. 

Sorrow  is  real  ;  but  the  counterfeit 

Which  folly  brings  to  it, 
We  need  thy  wit  and  wisdom  to  resist, 

O  rarest  Optimist  ! 

Thy  hand,  old  friend  !  the  service  of  our 
days, 

In  differing  moods  and  ways 
May  prove  to  those  who  follow  in  our  train 

Not  valueless  nor  vain. 

Far  off,  and  faint  as  echoes  of  a  dream, 
The  songs  of  boyhood  seem, 


Yet  on  our  autumn  boughs,  unflown  with 

spring, 
The  evening  thrushes  sing. 

The  hour  draws  near,  howe'er  delayed  and 

late, 

When  at  the  Eternal  Gate 
We  leave  the  words  and  works  we  call  our 

own, 
And  lift  void  hands  alone 

For  love  to  fill.     Our  nakedness  of  soul 
Brings  to  that  Gate  no  toll  ; 

Giftless  we  come  to  Him,    who  all  things 

gives, 
And  live  because  He  lives. 


POEMS    BY    ELIZABETH    H.    WHITTIER 


Originally  published  in  the  volume  entitled 
Hazel  Blossoms,  and  accompanied  by  the  fol 
lowing  prefatory  note :  — 

I  have  ventured,  in  compliance  with  the 
desire  of  dear  friends  of  my  beloved  sister, 
ELIZABETH  H.  WHITTIEI*.  to  add  to  this  little 
volume  the  few  poetical  pieces  which  she  left 
behind  her.  .  .  .  These  poems,  with  perhaps 
two  or  three  exceptions,  afford  but  slight  indi 
cations  of  the  inward  life  of  the  writer,  who 
had  an  almost  morbid  dread  of  spiritual  and 
intellectual  egotism,  or  of  her  tenderness  of 
sympathy,  chastened  mirthfulness,  and  pleas 
ant  play  of  thought  and  fancy,  when  her  shy, 
beautiful  soul  opened  like  a  flower  in  the 
warmth  of  social  communion.  In  the  lines  on 


THE  DREAM  OF  ARGYLE 


EARTHLY  arms  no  more  uphold  him 
On  his  prison's  stony  floor  ; 

Waiting  death  in  his  last  slumber, 
Lies  the  doomed  MacCallum  More 

And  he  dreams  a  dream  of  boyhood  ; 

Rise  again  his  heathery  hills, 
Sound  again  the  hound's  long  baying, 

Cry  of  moor-fowl,  laugh  of  rills. 

Now  he  stands  amidst  his  clansmen 
In  the  low,  long  banquet-hall, 

Over  grim  ancestral  armor 
Sees  the  ruddy  firelight  fall. 

Once  again,  with  pulses  beating, 
Hears  the  wandering  minstrel  tell 

How  Montrose  on  Inverary 

Thief-like  from  his  mountains  fell. 

Down  the  glen,  beyond  the  castle, 
Where  the  linn's  swift  waters  shine, 

Round  the  youthful  heir  of  Argyle 
Shy  feet  glide  and  white  arms  twine. 

fairest  of  tbe  rustic  dancers, 

Blue-eyed  Effie  smiles  once  more, 


Dr.  Kane  her  friends  will  see  something  of  her 
fine  individuality,  —  the  rare  mingling  of  deli 
cacy  and  intensity  of  feeling  which  made  her 
dear  to  them.  This  little  poem  reached  Cuba 
while  the  great  explorer  lay  on  his  death-bed, 
and  we  are  told  that  he  listened  with  grateful 
tears  while  it  was  read  to  him  by  his  mother. 

I  am  tempted  to  say  more,  but  I  write  as 
under  the  eye  of  her  who,  while  with  us.  shrank 
with  painful  deprecation  from  the  praise  or 
mention  of  performances  which  seemed  so  far 
below  her  ideal  of  excellence.  To  those  who 
best  knew  her,  the  beloved  circle  of  her  inti 
mate  friends,  I  dedicate  this  slight  memorial. 

J.  G.  W. 

AMESBURY,  Sth  mo.,  1874. 

Bends  to  him  her  snooded  tresses. 
Treads  with  him  the  grassy  floor. 

Now  he  hears  the  pipes  lamenting, 
Harpers  for  his  mother  mourn, 

Slow,  with  sable  plume  and  pennon, 
To  her  cairn  of  burial  borne. 

Then  anon  his  dreams  are  darker, 
Sounds  of  battle  fill  his  ears, 

And  the  pibroch's  mournful  wailing 
For  his  father's  fall  he  hears. 

Wild  Lochaber's  mountain  echoes 
Wail  in  concert  for  the  dead, 

And  Loch  Awe's  deep  waters  murmur 
For  the  Campbell's  glory  fled  ! 

Fierce  and  strong  the  godless  tyrants 

Trample  the  apostate  land, 
While  her  poor  and  faithful  remnant 

Wait  for  the  Avenger's  hand. 

Once  again  at  Inverary, 

Years  of  weary  exile  o'er, 
Armed  to  lead  his  scattered  clansmen, 

Stands  the  bold  MacCallum  More. 

Once  again  to  battle  calling 

Sound  the  war-pipes  through  the  glea, 


480 


POEMS    BY   ELIZABETH    H.  WHITHER 


And  the  court-yard  of  Dunstaffnage 
Rings  with  tread  of  armed  men. 

All  is  lost  !     The  godless  triumph, 
And  the  faithful  ones  and  true 

From  the  scaffold  and  the  prison 
Covenant  with  God  anew. 

On  the  darkness  of  his  dreaming 
Great  and  sudden  glory  shone  ; 

Over  bonds  and  death  victorious 
Stands  he  by  the  Father's  throne  ! 

From  the  radiant  ranks  of  martyrs 
Notes  of  joy  and  praise  he  hears, 

Songs  of  his  poor  land's  deliverance 
Sounding  from  the  future  years. 

Lo,  he  wakes  !  but  airs  celestial 
Bathe  him  in  immortal  rest, 

And  he  sees  with  unsealed  vision 
Scotland's  cause  with  victory  blest. 

Shining  hosts  attend  and  guard  him 
As  he  leaves  his  prison  door  ; 

And  to  death  as  to  a  triumph 
Walks  the  great  MacCallum  More  ! 


LINES 

Written  on  the  departure  of  Joseph  Sturge, 
after  his  visit  to  the  abolitionists  of  the  United 
States. 

FAIR  islands  of  the  sunny  sea  !  midst  all 

rejoicing  things, 
No  more  the  wailing  of  the  slave  a  wild 

discordance  brings  ; 
On  the  lifted  brows  of  freemen  the  tropic 

breezes  blow, 
The  mildew  of  the  bondman's  toil  the  land 

no  more  shall  know. 

How    swells    from    those    green    islands, 

where  bird  and  leaf  and  flower 
Are  praising  in  their  own  sweet  way  the 

dawn  of  freedom's  hour, 
The  glorious  resurrection  song  from  hearts 

rejoicing  poured. 
Thanksgiving  for  the  priceless  gift,  —  man's 

regal  crown  restored  ! 

How  beautiful  through    all  the    green  and 
tranquil  summer  land, 


Uplifted,  as  by  miracle,  the  solemn  churches 
stand  ! 

The  grass  is  trodden  from  the  paths  where 
waiting  freemen  throng, 

Athirst  and  fainting  for  the  cup  of  life  de 
nied  so  long. 

Oh,  blessed  were  the    feet  of  him  whose 

generous  errand  here 
Was  to  unloose  the  captive's  chain  and  dry 

the  mourner's  tear  ; 
To  lift  again  the  fallen  ones  a  brother's 

robber  hand 
Had  left  in  pain  and  wretchedness  by  the 

waysides  of  the  land. 

The  islands  of  the  sea  rejoice  ;  the  harvest 
anthems  rise  ; 

The  sower  of  the  seed  must  own  't  is  mar 
vellous  in  his  eyes  ; 

The  old  waste  places  are  rebuilt,  —  the 
broken  walls  restored,  — 

And  the  wilderness  is  blooming  like  the 
garden  of  the  Lord  ! 

Thanksgiving  for  the    holy  fruit !   should 

not  the  laborer  rest, 
His  earnest  faith  and  works  of  love  have 

been  so  richly  blest  ? 
The    pride  of  all  fair  England  shall  her 

ocean  islands  be, 
And   their    peasantry  with    joyful   hearts 

keep  ceaseless  jubilee. 

Rest,   never !  while   his  countrymen  have 

trampled  hearts  to  bleed, 
The  stifled    murmur   of   their   wrongs  his 

listening  ear  shall  heed, 
Where    England's    far    dependencies   her 

might,  not  mercy,  know, 
To  all  the  crushed  and  suffering  there  his 

pitying  love  shall  flow. 

The  friend  of  freedom   everywhere,  how 

mourns  he  for  our  land, 
The  brand  of   whose  hypocrisy  burns  on 

her  guilty  hand  ! 
Her  thrift  a  theft,  the  robber's  greed  and 

cunning  in  her  eye, 
Her  glory  shame,  her  flaunting  flag  on  all 

the  winds  a  lie  ! 

For  us  with  steady  strength  of  heart  and 
zeal  forever  true, 


DR.    KANE   IN   CUBA 


481 


The  champion  of  the  island  slave  the  con 
flict  doth  renew, 

His  labor  here  hath  been  to  point  the 
Pharisaic  eye 

Away  from  empty  creed  and  form  to  where 
the  wounded  lie. 

How  beautiful  to  us  should  seem  the  com 
ing  feet  of  such  ! 

Their  garments  of  self-sacrifice  have  heal 
ing  in  their  touch  ; 

Their  gospel  mission  none  may  doubt,  for 
they  heed  the  Master's  call, 

Who  here  walked  with  the  multitude,  and 
sat  at  meat  with  all ! 


JOHN  QUINCY  ADAMS 

HE  rests  with  the  immortals  ;  his  journey 

has  been  long  : 
For  him  no  wail  of  sorrow,  but  a  paean  full 

and  strong  ! 
So  well  and  bravely  has  he  done  the  work 

he  found  to  do, 
To  justice,  freedom,  duty,  God,  and  man 

forever  true. 

Strong  to  the  end,  a  man  of  men,  from  out 

the  strife  he  passed  ; 
The  grandest  hour  of  all  his  life  was  that 

of  earth  the  last. 
Now  midst  his  snowy  hills  of  home  to  the 

grave  they  bear  him  down, 
The  glory  of  his  fourscore  years  resting  on 

him  like  a  crown. 

The  mourning  of  the  many  bells,  the 
drooping  flags,  all  seem 

Like  some  dim,  unreal  pageant  passing  on 
ward  in  a  dream  ; 

And  following  with  the  living  to  his  last 
and  narrow  bed, 

Methinks  I  see  a  shadowy  band,  a  train  of 
noble  dead. 

*T  is  a  strange  and  weird  procession  that  is 
slowly  moving  on, 

The  phantom  patriots  gathered  to  the  fu 
neral  of  their  son  ! 

In  shadowy  guise  they  move  along,  brave 
Otis  with  hushed  tread, 

And  Warren  walking  reverently  by  the 
father  of  the  dead. 


Gliding  foremost  in  the  misty  band  a  gentle 
form  is  there, 

In  the  white  robes  of  the  angels  and  their 
glory  round  her  hair. 

She  hovers  near  and  bends  above  her  world 
wide  honored  child, 

And  the  joy  that  heaven  alone  can  know 
beams  on  her  features  mild. 

And  so  they  bear  him  to  his  grave  in  the 

fulness  of  his  years, 
True  sage  and  prophet,  leaving  us  in  a  time 

of  many  fears. 
Nevermore  amid  the  darkness  of  our  wild 

and  evil  day 
Shall  his  voice  be  heard  to  cheer  us,  shall 

his  finger  point  the  way. 


DR.  KANE  IN  CUBA 

A  NOBLE  life  is  in  thy  care, 

A  sacred  trust  to  thee  is  given  ; 

Bright  Island  !  let  thy  healing  air 
Be  to  him  as  the  breath  of  Heaven. 

The  marvel  of  his  daring  life  — 
The  self-forgetting  leader  bold  — 

Stirs,  like  the  trumpet's  call  to  strife, 
A  million  hearts  of  meaner  mould. 

Eyes  that  shall  never  meet  his  own 
Look  dim  with  tears  across  the  sea, 

Where  from  the  dark  and  icy  zone, 

Sweet  Isle  of  Flowers  !  he  comes  to  thee 

Fold  him  in  rest,  O  pitying  clime  ! 

Give  back  his  wasted  strength  again  ; 
Soothe,  with  thy  endless  summer  time, 

His  winter-wearied  heart  and  brain. 

Sing  soft  and  low,  thou  tropic  bird, 

From  out  the  fragrant,  flowery  tree,  — 

The  ear  that  hears  thee  now  has  heard 
The  ice-break  of  the  winter  sea. 

Through  his  long  watch  of  awful  night, 
He  saw  the  Bear  in  Northern  skies  ; 

Now,  to  the  Southern  Cross  of  light 
He  lifts  in  hope  his  weary  eyes. 

Prayers  from  the  hearts  that  watched  in  feai 
When  the  dark  North  no  answer  gave, 

Rise,  trembling,  to  the  Father's  ear, 
That  still  His  love  may  help  and  save. 


TOEMS    BY  ELIZABETH    H.  WHITTIER 


LADY  FRANKLIN 

FOLD  thy  hands,  thy  work  is  over  ; 

Cool  thy  watching  eyes  with  tears  ; 
Let  thy  poor  heart,  over-wearied, 

Rest  alike  from 'hopes  and  fears, — 

Hopes,  that  saw  with  sleepless  vision 
One  sad  picture  fading  slow  ; 

Fears,  that  followed,  vague  and  nameless, 
Lifting  back  the  veils  of  snow. 

For  thy  brave  one,  for  thy  lost  one, 
Truest  heart  of  woman,  weep  ! 

Owning  still  the  love  that  granted 
Unto  thy  beloved  sleep. 

Not  for  him  that  hour  of  terror 
When,  the  long  ice-battle  o'er, 

In  the  sunless  day  his  comrades 
Deathward  trod  the  Polar  shore. 

Spared  the  cruel  cold  and  famine, 
Spared  the  fainting  heart's  despair, 

What  but  that  could  mercy  grant  him  ? 
What  but  that  has  been  thy  prayer  ? 

Dear  to  thee  that  last  memorial 
From  the  cairn  beside  the  sea  ; 

Evermore  the  month  of  roses 
Shall  be  sacred  time  to  thee. 

Sad  it  is  the  mournful  yew-tree 
O'er  his  slumbers  may  not  wave  ; 

Sad  it  is  the  English  daisy 

May  not  blossom  on  his  grave. 

But  his  tomb  shall  storm  and  winter 
Shape  and  fashion  year  by  year, 

Pile  his  mighty  mausoleum, 

Block  by  block,  and  tier  on  tier. 

Guardian  of  its  gleaming  portal 

Shall  his  stainless  honor  be, 
While  thy  love,  a  sweet  immortal, 

Hovers  o'er  the  winter  sea. 

NIGHT   AND    DEATH 

THE  storm-wind  is  howling 
Through  old  pines  afar  ; 

The  drear  night  is  falling 
Without  moon  or  star. 


The  roused  sea  is  lashing 

The  bold  shore  behind, 
And  the  moan  of  its  ebbing 

Keeps  time  with  the  wind. 

On,  on  through  the  darkness, 

A  spectre,  I  pass 
Where,  like  moaning  of  broken  hearty 

Surges  the  grass  ! 

I  see  her  lone  head-stone,  — 

'T  is  white  as  a  shroud  ; 
Like  a  pall  hangs  above  it 

The  low  drooping  cloud. 

Who  speaks  through  the  dark  night 

And  lull  of  the  wind  ? 
'T  is  the  sound  of  the  pine-leaves 

And  sea-waves  behind. 

The  dead  girl  is  silent,  — 

I  stand  by  her  now  ; 
And  her  pulse  beats  no  quicker, 

Nor  crimsons  her  brow. 

The  small  hand  that  trembled, 

When  last  in  my  own, 
Lies  patient  and  folded, 

And  colder  than  stone. 

Like  the  white  blossoms  falling 

To-night  in  the  gale, 
So  she  in  her  beauty 

Sank  mournful  and  pale. 

Yet  I  loved  her  !     I  utter 

Such  words  by  her  grave, 
As  I  would  not  have  spoken 

Her  last  breath  to  save. 

Of  her  love  the  angels 

In  heaven  might  tell, 
While  mine  would  be  whispered 

With  shudders  in  hell  ! 

'T  was  well  that  the  white  ones 

Who  bore  her  to  bliss 
Shut  out  from  her  new  life 

The  vision  of  this  ; 

Else,  sure  as  I  stand  here, 

And  speak  of  my  love, 
She  would  leave  for  my  darkness 

Her  glory  above. 


CHARITY 


THE   MEETING   WATERS 

CLOSE  beside  the  meeting  waters, 
Long  I  stood  as  in  a  dream, 

Watching  how  the  little  river 
Fell  into  the  broader  stream. 

Calm  and  still  the  mingled  current 

Glided  to  the  waiting  sea  ; 
On  its  breast  serenely  pictured 

Floating  cloud  and  skirting  tree. 

And  I  thought,  "  O  human  spirit  ! 

Strong  and  deep  and  pure  and  blest, 
Let  the  stream  of  my  existence 

Blend  with  thine,  and  find  its  rest !  " 

I  could  die  as  dies  the  river, 
In  that  current  deep  and  wide  ; 

I  would  live  as  live  its  waters, 
Flashing  from  a  stronger  tide  ! 


THE   WEDDING  VEIL 

DEAR  Anna,  when  I  brought  her  veil, 
Her  white  veil,  on  her  wedding  night, 

Threw  o'er  my  thin  brown  hair  its  folds, 
And,  laughing,  turned  me  to  the  light. 

"  See,  Bessie,  see  !  you  wear  at  last 
The  bridal  veil,  forsworn  for  years  !  " 

She  saw  my  face,  —  her  laugh  was  hushed, 
Her  happy  eyes  were  filled  with  tears. 

With  kindly  haste  and  trembling  hand 
She  drew  away  the  gauzy  mist  ; 

*  Forgive,  dear  heart  !  "  her  sweet  voice 

said  : 
Her  loving  lips  my  forehead  kissed. 


We  passed  from  out  the  searching  light ; 

The  summer  night  was  calm  and  fair 
I  did  not  see  her  pitying  eyes, 

I  felt  her  soft  hand  smooth  my  hair. 

Her  tender  love  unlocked  my  heart  ; 

Mid  falling  tears,  at  last  I  said, 
"  Forsworn  indeed  to  me  that  veil 
Because  I  only  love  the  dead  1 " 

She  stood  one  moment  statue-still, 

And,  musing,  spake,  in  undertone, 
"  The  living  love  may  colder  grow  ; 
The  dead  is  safe  with  God  alone  !  " 


CHARITY 

THE  pilgrim  and  stranger  who  through  the 

day 

Holds  over  the  desert  his  trackless  way, 
Where  the   terrible   sands  no  shade  have 

known, 

No  sound  of  life  save  his  camel's  moan, 
Hears,  at  last,  through  the  mercy  of  Allah 

to  all, 
From  his  tent-door  at  evening  the  Bedouin's 

call: 

"  Whoever  thou  art  whose  need  is  great, 
In  the  name  of  God,  the  Compassionate 
And  Merciful  One,  for  ihee  I  wait  I  " 

For  gifts  in  His  name  of  food  and  rest 
The  tents  of  Islam  of  God  are  blest  ; 
Thou  who  hast  faith  in  the  Christ  above, 
Shall  the  Koran   teach  thee   the   Law  of 

Love  ?  — 

O  Christian  !  open  thy  heart  and  door, 
Cry  east  and  west  to  the  wandering  poor  ' 
"  Whoever  thou  art  whose  need  is  great, 
In  the  name  of  Christ,  the  Compassionate 
And  Merciful  One,  for  thee  I  wait  I " 


APPENDIX 


L    EARLY  AND  UNCOLLECTED 
VERSES 

I  AM  yielding1  to  what  seems,  under  the  cir 
cumstances,  almost  a  necessity,  in  adding  to  the 
pieces  assigned  for  one  reason  or  another  to  the 
limbo  of  an  appendix,  some  of  my  very  earliest 
attempts  at  verse,  which  have  been  kept  alive 
in  the  newspapers  for  the  last  half  century. 
A  few  of  them  have  even  been  printed  in  book 
form  without  my  consent,  and  greatly  to  my 
annoyance,  with  all  their  accumulated  errors 
of  the  press  added  to  their  original  defects 
and  crudity.  I  suppose  they  should  have  died 
a  natural  death  long  ago,  but  their  feline  te 
nacity  of  life  seems  to  contradict  the  theory 
of  the  "  survival  of  the  fittest."  I  have  con 
sented,  at  my  publishers'  request,  to  take  the 
poor  vagrants  home  and  give  them  a  more 
presentable  appearance,  in  the  hope  that  they 
may  at  least  be  of  some  interest  to  those  who 
are  curious  enough  to  note  the  weak  begin 
nings  of  the  graduate  of  a  small  country  dis 
trict  school,  sixty  years  ago.  That  they  met 
with  some  degree  of  favor  at  that  time  may  be 
accounted  for  by  the  fact  that  the  makers  of 
yerse  were  then  few  in  number,  with  little 
competition  in  their  unprofitable  vocation,  and 
that  the  standard  of  criticism  was  not  discour- 
agingly  high. 

The  earliest  of  the  author's  verses  that 
found  their  way  into  print  were  published  in 
the  Newburyport  Free  Press,  edited  by  Wil 
liam  Lloyd  Garrison,  in  1826.  [The  poems 
here  collected,  with  the  exception  of  the  last, 
were  written  during  the  years  1825-1833.] 

THE  EXILE'S   DEPARTURE 

FOND  scenes,  which  delighted  my  youthful  ex 
istence, 

With  feelings  of  sorrow  I  bid  ye  adieu  — 
A  lasting  adieu  !  for  now,  dim  in  the  distance, 

The  shores  of  Hibernia  recede  from  my  view. 
Farewell  to  the  cliffs,  tempest-beaten  and  gray, 
Which  guard  the  lov'd  shores  of  my  own  na 
tive  land  ; 

Farewell  to  the  village  and  sail-shadow'd  bay, 
The  forest-crown'd  hill  and  the  water-wash' d 
strand. 


484 


I  've  fought  for  my  country  —  I  've  brav'd  all 

the  dangers 
That  throng  round  the  path  of  the  warrior  ia 

strife  ; 
I  now  must  depart  to  a  nation  of  strangers, 

And  pass  in  seclusion  the  remnant  of  life  ; 
Far,  far  from  the  friends  to  my  bosom  most 

dear, 

With  none  to  support  me  in  peril  and  pain, 
And  none  but  the  stranger  to  drop  the  sad  tear 
On  the  grave  where  the  heart-broken  Exile  is 
lain. 

Friends  of  my  youth  !    I  must  leave  you  for 
ever, 

And  hasten  to  dwell  in  a  region  unknown  :  — 
Yet  time  cannot  change,  nor  the  broad  ocean 

sever, 

Hearts  firmly  united  and  tried  as  our  own. 
Ah,  no  !  though  I  wander,  all  sad  and  forlorn, 

In  a  far  distant  land,  yet  shall  memory  trace, 
When  far  o'er  the  ocean's  white  surges  I'm 

borne, 

The  scene  of  past  pleasures,  —  my  own  native 
place. 

Farewell,  shores  of  Erin,  green  land  of  my  fa 
thers  :  — 

Once  more,  and  forever,  a  mournful  adieu  ! 
For  round  thy  dim  headlands  the  ocean-mist 

gathers, 

And  shrouds  the  fair  isle  I  no  longer  can  view. 
I  go  —  but  wherever  my  footsteps  I  bend, 

For  freedom  and  peace  to  my  own  native  isle, 
And  contentment  and  joy  to  each  warm-hearted 

friend 

Shall  be  the  heart's   prayer  of   the  lonely 
Exile ! 


THE   DEITY 

THE  Prophet  stood 

On  the  hitfh  mount,  and  saw  the  tempest  cloud 
Pour  the  fierce  whirlwind  from  its  reservoir 
Of  congregated  gloom.     The  mountain  oak, 
Torn  from   the   earth,    heaved   high   its  roots 

where  once 
Its    branches    waved.     The   fir-tree's    shapely 

form, 
Smote  by  the  tempest,  lashed  the  mountain's 

side. 

Yet,  calm  in  conscious  purity,  the  Seer 
Beheld  the  awful  desolation,  for 
The  Eternal  Spirit  moved  not  in  the  storm. 


EARLY  AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


485 


The  tempest  ceased.    The  caverned  earthquake 

burst 

Forth  from  its  prison,  and  the  mountain  rocked 
Even   to    its   base.     The  topmost  crags  were 

thrown, 
With  fearful    crashing,   down    its  shuddering 

sides. 

Unawed,  the  Prophet  saw  and  heard  ;  he  felt 
Not    in    the    earthquake    moved    the   God  of 

Heaven. 

The  murmur  died  away  ;  and  from  the  height, 
Torn  by  the  storm  and  shattered  by  the  shock, 
Rose  far  and  clear  a  pyramid  of  flame 
Mighty  and  vast ;  the  startled  mountain  deer 
Shrank  from  its  glare,  and  cowered  within  the 

shade ; 
The  wild  fowl  shrieked  —  but  even  then  the 

Seer 
Untrembling  stood  and   marked    the    fearful 

glow, 
For  Israel's  God  came  not  within  the  flame ! 

The  fiery  beacon  sank.    A  still,  small  voice, 
Unlike  to  human  sound,  at  once  conveyed 
Deep  awe  and  reverence  to  his  pious  heart. 
Then  bowed  the  holy  man  ;  his  face  he  veiled 
Within  his  mantle  —  and  in  meekness  owned 
The  presence  of  his  God,  discerned  not  in 
The    storm,  the    earthquake,  or   the  mighty 
flame. 


THE  VALE  OF  THE   MERRIMAC 

THERE  are  streams  which  are  famous  in  his 
tory's  story, 
Whose  names  are  familiar  to    pen  and    to 

tongue, 

Renowned  in  the  records  of  love  and  of  glory, 
Where  knighthood  has  ridden  and  minstrels 

have  sung :  — 
Fair  streams  thro'  more  populous  regions  are 

gliding, 
Tower,    temple,    and   palace    their    borders 

adorning, 
With  tall-masted  ships  on  their  broad  bosoms 

riding, 
Their  banners  stretch'd  out  in  the  breezes  of 

morning ; 
And  their  vales  may  be  lovely  and  pleasant  — 

but  never 

Was  skiff  ever  wafted,  or  wav'd  a  white  sail 
O'er  a  lovelier  wave  than  my  dear  native  river, 
Or  brighter  tides  roll'd  than  in  Merrimac's 
vale! 

And  fair  streams  may  glide  where  the  climate 

is  milder, 
Where  winter  ne'er  gathers  and  spring  ever 

blooms, 

And  others  may  roll  where  the  region  is  wilder, 
Their  dark  waters  hid  in  some  forest's  deep 

gloom, 
Where  the  thunder-scath'd  peaks  of  Helvetia 

are  frowning, 
And  the  Rhine's  rapid  waters  encircle  their 


Where  the  snows  of  long  years  are  the  hoary 

Alps  crowning, 
And  the  tempest-charg'd  vapor  their  tall  tops 

embraces  :  — 
There  sure  might  be  fix'd,  amid  scenery  so 

frightful, 

The  region  of  romance  and  wild  fairy-tale,  — 
But  such  scenes  could  not  be  to  my  heart  so  de 
lightful 

As  the  home  of  my  fathers,  —  fair  Merrimac's 
vale ! 

There  are  streams  where  the  bounty  of  Provi 
dence  musters 
The  fairest  of  fruits  *by  their  warm  sunny 

sides, 
The  vine  bending  low  with  the  grape's  heavy 

clusters, 
And  the  orange-tree  waving  its  fruit    o'er 

their  tides  :  — 
But  I  envy  not  him  whose  lot  has  been  cast 

there, 
For  oppression  is  there  —  and  the  hand  of  the 

Xiler, 
38  of  justice  or  mercy,  has  past  there, 
And    made    him    a  wretched    and  indigent 

toiler. 

No  —  dearer  to  me  are  the  scenes  of  my  child 
hood, 
The  moss-cover'd  bank  and  the  breeze-wafted 

sail, 
The  age-stinted  oak  and  the  green  groves  of 

wild-wood 

That  wave  round  the  borders  of  Merrimac's 
vale! 


taper 


Thy  dimly  seen  lowlands  comes  glimmering 


When  on  thy  calm  surface  the  moonbeam  falls 

brightly, 

And  the  dull  bird  of  night  is  his  covert  for 
saking, 

When  the  whippporwill's  notes  from  thy  mar 
gin  sound  lightly, 
And  break  on  the  sound  which  thy  small 

waves  are  making, 
O  brightest  of  visions  !  my  heart  shall  forever, 

Till  memory  shall  perish  and  reason  shall  fail, 
Still  preference  give  to  my  own  native  river, 
The  home  of  my  fathers,   and  Merrimac's 
vale! 


BENEVOLENCE 

HAIL,  heavenly  gift !  within  the  human  breast, 
Germ  of  unnumber'd  virtues  —  by  thy  aid 

The  fainting  heart,  with  riving  grief  opprest, 
Survives  the  ruin  adverse  scenes  have  made :  \ 

Woes  that  have  wrung  the  bosom,  cares  that 

preyed 
Long  on  the  spirit,  are  dissoly'd  by  thee  — 

Misfortune's  frown,  despair's  disastrous  shade. 


486 


APPENDIX 


Ghastly  disease,  and  pining  poverty, 
Thy  influence  dread,  and  at  thy  approach  they 
flee. 

j.hy  spirit  led  th'  immortal  Howard  on  ; 

Nurtur'd  by  thee,  on  many  a  foreign  shore 
Imperishable  tame,  by  virtue  won, 

Adorns  his  memory,  tho'  his  course  is  o'er ; 
Thy  animating  smile  his  aspect  wore, 

To  cheer  the  sorrow-desolated  soul, 
Compassion's  balm  in  grief-worn  hearts  to  pour, 

And  snatch  the  prisoner  from  despair's  con 
trol, 

Steal  half  his  woes  away,  and  lighter  make  the 
whole. 

Green  be  the  sod  on  Cherson's  honor'd  field, 
Where  wraps  the  turf  around  his  mouldering 
clay ; 

There  let  the  earth  her  choicest  beauties  yield, 
And  there  the   breeze  in  gentlest  murmurs 


There  let  the  widow  and  the  orphan  stray, 

To  wet  with  tears  their  benefactor's  tomb  ; 
There  let  the  rescued  prisoner  bend  his  way, 
And  mourn  o'er  him,  who  in  the  dungeon's 

gloom 

Had  sought  him  and  averted  misery's  fearful 
doom. 

His  grave  perfum'd  with    heartfelt    sighs  of 

grief, 

And  moistened  by  the  tear  of  gratitude,  — 
Oh,  how  unlike  the  spot  where  war's  grim  chief 
feinks  on  the  field,   in  sanguine  waves  im 
brued  ! 
Who  mourns  for  him,  whose  footsteps  can  be 

viewed 

With  reverential  awe  imprinted  near 
The  monument  rear'd  o'er  the  man  of  blood  ? 

Or  who  waste  on  it  sorrow's  balmy  tear  ? 
None  !  shame  and  misery  rest  alone  upon  his 
bier. 

Offspring  of  heaven  !     Benevolence,  thy  pow'r 

Bade  AA7ilberforce  its  mighty  champion  be, 
And  taught  a  Clarkson's  ardent  mind  to  soar 

O'er  every  obstacle,  when  serving  thee  :  — 
Theirs  was  the  task  to  set  the  sufferer  free, 

To  break  the  bonds  which  bound  th'  unwill 
ing  slave, 
To  shed  abroad  the  light  of  liberty, 

And  leave  to  all  the  rights  their  Maker  gave, 
To  bid   the  world   rejoice  o'er  hated  slavery's 
grave. 

Diffuse  thy  charms,  Benevolence  !  let  thy  light 

Pierce  the  dark  clouds  which  ages  past  have 

thrown 
Before  the  beams  of  truth  —  and  nature's  right, 

Inborn,  let  every  hardened  tyrant  own  ; 
On  our  fair  shore  be  thy  mild  presence  known  ; 

And  every  portion  of  Columbia's  land 
Be  as  God's  garden  with  thy  blessings  sown  ; 

Yea,  o'er  Earth's  regions  let  thy  love  expand 
Till  all  united  are  in  friendship  s  sacred  bandl 


Then  in  that  hour  of  joy  will  be  fulfilled 

The  prophet's  heart-consoling  prophecy  ; 
Then  war's  commotion  shall  on  earth  be  stilled^ 

And  men  their  swords  to  other  use  apply  ; 
Then  Afric's  injured  sons  no  more  shall  try 

The  bitterness  of  slavery's  toil  and  pain, 
Nor  pride  nor  love  of  gain  direct  the  eye 

Of  stern  oppression  to  their  homes  again  ; 
But  peace,   a  lasting    peace,   throughout    the 
world  shall  reign. 


OCEAN 

UNFATHOMED  deep,  unfetter'd  wast* 

Of  never-silent  waves, 
Each  by  its  rushing  follower  chas'd, 

Through  unillumin'd  caves, 
And  o'er  the  rocks  whose  turrets  rude, 

E'en  since  the  birth  of  time, 
Have  heard  amid  thy  solitude 

The  billow's  ceaseless  chime. 

O'er  what  recesses,  depths  unknown, 

Dost  thou  thy  wavds  impel, 
Where  never  yet  a  sunbeam  shone, 

Or  gleam  of  moonlight  fell  ? 
For  never  yet  did  mortal  eyes 

Thy  gloom-wrapt  deeps  behold, 
And  naught  of  thy  dread  mysteries 

The  tongue  of  man  hath  told. 

WThat,  though  proud  man  presume  to  hold 

His  course  upon  thy  tide, 
O'er  thy  dark  billows  uncontroll'd 

His  fragile  bark  to  guide  — 
Yet  who,  upon  thy  mountain  waves, 

Can  feel  himself  secure 
While  sweeping  o'er  thy  yawning  caves, 

Deep,  awful,  and  obscure  ? 

But  thou  art  mild  and  tranquil  now  — 

Thy  wrathful  spirits  sleep, 
And  gentle  billows,  calm  and  slow, 

Across  thy  bosom  sweep. 
Yet  where  the  dim  horizon's  bound 

Rests  on  thy  sparkling  bed, 
The  tempest-cloud,  in  gloom  profound, 

Prepares  its  wrath  to  shed. 

Thus,  mild  and  calm  in  youth's  bright  hou 

The  tide  of  life  appears, 
When  fancy  paints,  with  magic  spell, 

The  bliss  of  coming  years  ; 
But  clouds  will  rise,  and  darkness  bring 

O'er  life's  deceitful  way, 
And  cruel  disappointment  fling 
_    Its  shade  on  hope's  dim  ray. 


THE   SICILIAN   VESPERS 

SILENCE  o  er  sea  and  earth 
With  the  veil  of  evening  fell, 

Till  the  convent-tower  sent  deeply  forth 
The  chime  of  its  vesuer  bell. 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


487 


One  moment  —  and  that  solemn  sound 

Fell  heavy  on  the  ear  ; 
But  a  sterner  echo  passed  around, 

And  the  boldest  shook  to  hear. 

The  startled  monks  thronged  up, 

In  the  torchlight  cold  and  dim  ; 
And  the  priest  let  fall  his  incense-cup, 

And  the  virgin  hushed  her  hymn, 
For  a  boding  clash,  and  a  clanging  tramp, 

And  a  summoning  voice  were  heard, 
And  fretted  wall,  and  dungeon  damp, 

To  the  fearful  echo  stirred. 

The  peasant  heard  the  sound, 

As  he  sat  beside  his  hearth ; 
And  the  song  and  the  dance  were  hushed  around, 

With  the  fire-side  tale  of  mirth. 
The  chieftain  shook  in  his  banner'd  hall, 

As  the  sound  of  fear  drew  nigh, 
And  the  warder  shrank  from  the  castle  wall, 

As  the  gleam  of  spears  went  by. 

Woe  !  woe  !  to  the  stranger,  then, 

At  the  feast  and  flow  of  wine, 
IB  the  red  array  of  mailed  men, 

Or  bowed  at  the  holy  shrine  ; 
For  the  wakened  pride  of  an  injured  land 

Had  burst  its  iron  thrall, 
From  the  plumed  chief  to  the  pilgrim  band  ; 

Woe  !  woe  !  to  the  sons  of  Gaul ! 

Proud  beings  fell  that  hour, 

With  che  young  and  passing  fair, 
And  the  flame  went  up  from  dome  and  tower, 

The  avenger's  arm  was  there  ! 
The  stranger  priest  at  the  altar  stood, 

And  clasped  his  beads  in  prayer, 
But  the  holy  shrine  grew  dim  with  blood, 

The  avenger  found  him  there  ! 

Woe  !  woe  !  to  the  sons  of  Gaul, 

To  the  serf  and  mailed  lord  ; 
They  were  gathered  darkly,  one  and  all, 

To  the  harvest  of  the  sword  : 
And  the  morning  sun,  with  a  quiet  smile, 

Shone  out  o'er  hill  and  glen, 
On  ruined  temple  and  smouldering  pile, 

And  the  ghastly  forms  of  men. 

Ay,  the  sunshine  sweetly  smiled, 

As  its  early  glance  came  forth, 
It  had  no  sympathy  with  the  wild 

And  terrible  things  of  earth. 
And  the  man  of  blood  that  day  might  read, 

In  a  language  freely  given, 
How  ill  his  dark  and  midnight  deed 

Became  the  calm  of  Heaven. 


THE   SPIRIT   OF   THE   NORTH 

SPIRIT  of  the  frozen  North, 

Where  the  wave  is  chained  and  still, 
And  the  savage  bear  looks  forth 

Nightly  from  his  cavevned  hill  1 


Down  from  thy  eternal  throne, 

From  thy  land  of  cloud  and  storm, 

Where  the  meeting  icebergs  groan, 
Sweepeth  on  thy  wrathful  form. 

Spirit  of  the  frozen  wing  ! 

Dweller  of  a  voiceless  clime, 
Where  no  coming  on  of  spring 

Gilds  the  weary  course  of  time  ! 
Monarch  of  a  realm  untrod 

By  the  restless  feet  of  men, 
Where  alone  the  hand  of  God 

'Mid  his  mighty  works  hath  been ! 

Throned  amid  the  ancient  hills, 

Piled  with  undecaying  snow, 
Flashing  with  the  path  of  rills, 

Frozen  in  their  first  glad  flow  : 
Thou  hast  seen  the  gloomy  north, 

Gleaming  with  unearthly  light, 
Spreading  its  pale  banners  forth, 

Checkered  with  the  stars  of  night. 

Thou  hast  £azed  untrembling,  where 

Giant  forms  of  flame  were  driven, 
Like  the  spirits  of  the  air, 

Striding  up  the  vault  of  heaven ! 
Thou  hast  seen  that  midnight  glow, 

Hiding  moon  and  star  and  sky, 
And  the  icy  hills  below 

Reddening  to  the  fearful  dye. 

Dark  and  desolate  and  lone, 

Curtained  with  the  tempest-cloud, 
Drawn  around  thy  ancient  throne 

Like  oblivion's  moveless  shroud, 
Dim  and  distantly  the  sun 

Glances  on  thy  palace  walls, 
But  a  shadow  cold  and  dun 

Broods  along  its  pillared  halls. 

Lord  of  sunless  depths  and  cold  ! 

Chainer  of  the  northern  sea ! 
At  whose  feet  the  storm  is  rolled, 

Who  hath  power  to  humble  thee  ? 
Spirit  of  the  stormy  north  ! 

Bow  thee  to  thy  Maker's  nod  ; 
Bend  to  him  who  sent  thee  forth, 

Servant  of  the  living  God. 


THE  EARTHQUAKE 

CALMLY  the  night  came  down 
O'er  Scylla's  shatter'd  walls  ; 

How  desolate  that  silent  town ! 
How  tenantless  the  halls, 

Where  yesterday  her  thousands  trod, 

And  princes  graced  their  proud  abode  J 

Low,  on  the  wet  sea  sand, 

Humbled  in  anguish  now, 
The  despot,  midst  his  menial  band. 

Bent  down  his  kingly  brow  ; 
And  prince  and  peasant  knelt  in  prayer, 
?Tor  grief  had  made  them  equal  there 


488 


APPENDIX 


Again  as  at  the  morn, 

The  earthquake  roll1  d  its  oar  : 
Lowly  the  castle-towers  were  borne, 

That  mock'd  the  storms  of  war  ; 
The  mountain  reeled,  its  shiver 'd  bro\v 
Went  down  among  the  waves  below. 

Up  rose  the  kneelers  then, 

As  the  wave's  rush  was  heard  : 

The  horror  of  those  fated  men 
Was  uttered  by  no  word. 

But  closer  still  the  mother  prest 

The  infant  to  her  faithful  breast. 

One  long,  wild  shriek  went  ap, 

Full  mighty  in  despair ; 
As  bow'd  to  drink  death's  bitter  cup, 

The  thousands  gathered  there  ; 
And  man's  strong  wail  and  woman's  cry 
Blent  as  the  waters  hurried  by. 

On  swept  the  whelming  sea  ; 

The  mountains  felt  its  shock, 
As  the  long  cry  of  agony 

Thrills  thro'  their  towers  of  rock ; 
An  echo  round  that  fatal  shore 
The  death  wail  of  the  sufferers  bore. 

The  morning  sun  shed  forth 

Its  light  upon  the  scene, 
Where  tower  and  palace  strew'd  the  earth 

With  wrecks  of  what  had  been. 
But  of  the  thousands  who  were  gone, 
No  trace  was  left,  no  vestige  shown. 

JUDITH  AT  THE  TENT  OF  HOLO- 
FERNES 

NIGHT  was  down  among  the  mountains, 

In  her  dim  and  quiet  manner. 
Where  Bethulia's  silver  fountains 

Gushed  beneath  the  Assyrian  banner. 
Moonlight,  o'er  her  meek  dominion, 

As  a  mighty  flag  unfurled, 
Like  an  angel's  snowy  pinion 

Resting  on  a  darkened  world ! 

Faintly  rose  the  city's  murmur, 

But  the  crowded  camp  was  calm ; 
Girded  in  their  battle  armor, 

Each  a  falchion  at  his  arm, 
Lordly  chief  and  weary  vassal 

In  the  arms  of  slumber  fell ; 
It  had  been  a  day  of  wassail, 

And  the  wine  had  circled  well. 

Underneath  his  proud  pavilion 

Lay  Assyria's  champion, 
Where  the  ruby's  rich  vermilion 

Shone  beside  the  beryl-stone. 
With  imperial  purple  laden, 

Breathing  in  the  perfumed  air, 
Dreams  he  of  the  Jewish  maiden, 

With  her  dark  and  jewelled  hair. 

Who  is  she,  the  pale-browed  stranger, 
Bending  o'er  that  son  of  slaughter  ? 


God  be  with  thee  in  thy  danger, 
Israel's  lone  and  peerless  daughter  ! 

She  hath  bared  her  queenly  beauty 
To  the  dark  Assyrian's  glance  ; 

Now  a  high  and  sterner  duty 
Bids  her  to  his  couch  advance. 

Beautiful  and  pale  she  bendeth 

In  her  earnest  prayer  to  Heaven  ; 
Look  again,  that  maiden  standeth 

In  the  strength  her  God  has  given ! 
Strangely  is  her  dark  eye  kindled, 

Hot  blood  through  her  cheek  is  poured; 
Lo,  her  every  fear  hath  dwindled, 

And  her  hand  is  on  the  sword  ! 

Upward  to  the  flashing  ctirtain, 

See,  that  mighty  blade  is  driven, 
And  its  fall !  —  'tis  swift  and  certain 

As  the  cloud-fire's  track  in  heaven  I 
Down,  as  with  a  power  supernal, 

Twice  the  lifted  weapon  fell ; 
Twice,  his  slumber  is  eternal  — 

Who  shall  wake  the  infidel  ? 

Sunlight  on  the  mountains  streameth 

Like  an  air-borne  wave  of  gold  ; 
And  Bethulia's  armor  gleameth 

Round  Judea's  banner-fold. 
Down  they  go,  the  mailed  warriors, 

As  the  upper  torrents  sally 
Headlong  from  their  mountain-barriers 

Down  upon  the  sleeping  valley. 

Rouse  thee  from  thy  couch,  Assyrian  I 

Dream  no  more  of  woman's  smile ; 
Fiercer  than  the  leaguered  Tyrian, 

Or  the  dark-browed  sons  of  Nile, 
Foes  are  on  thy  slumber  breaking, 

Chieftain,  to  thy  battle  rise  I 
Vain  the  call  —  he  will  not  waken  — 

Headless  on  his  couch  he  lies. 

Who  hath  dimmed  your  boasted  glory  ? 

What  hath  woman's  weakness  done  ? 
Whose  dark  brow  is  up  before  ye, 

Blackening  in  the  fierce-haired  sun  ? 
Lo  !  an  eye  that  never  slumbers 

Looketh  in  its  vengeance  down  ; 
And  the  thronged  and  mailed  numbers 

Wither  at  Jehovah's  frown ! 


METACOM 

Metacom,  or  Philip,  the  chief  of  the  Wain- 
wioags,  was  the  most  powerful  and  sagacious 
achem  who  ever  made  war  upon  the  English. 

RED  as  the  banner  which  enshrouds 

The  warrior-dead,  when  strife  is  done, 
A  broken  mass  of  crimson  clouds 

Hung  over  the  departed  sun. 
The  shadow  of  the  western  hill 
Crept  swiftly  down,  and  darkly  still, 
As  if  a  sullen  wave  of  night 
Were  rushing  on  the  pale  twilight ; 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


489 


The  forest-openings  grew  more  dim, 
As  glimpses  of  the  arching  blue 
And  waking  stars  came  softly  through 
The  rifts  of  many  a  giant  limb. 
Above  the  wet  and  tangled  swamp 
White  vapors  gathered  thick  and  damp, 
And  through  their  cloudy  curtaining 
Flapped  many  a  brown  and  dusky  wing  — 
Pinions  that  fan  the  moonless  dun, 
But  fold  them  at  the  rising  sun  1 

Beneath  the  closing  veil  of  night, 

And  leafy  bough  and  curling  fog, 
With  his  few  warriors  ranged  in  sight  — 
Scarred  relics  of  his  latest  fight  — 

Rested  the  fiery  Wampanoag. 
He  leaned  upon  his  loaded  gun, 
Warm  with  its  recent  work  of  death, 
And,  save  the  struggling  of  his  breath, 
That,  slow  and  hard  and  long-repressed, 
Shook  the  damp  folds  around  his  breast, 
An  eye  that  was  unused  to  scan 
The  sterner  moods  of  that  dark  man 
Had  deemed  his  tall  and  silent  form 
With  hidden  passion  fierce  and  warm, 
With  that  fixed  eye,  as  still  and  dark 
As  clouds  which  veil  their  lightning  spark, 
That  of  some  forest-champion, 
Whom  sudden  death  had  passed  upon  — 
A  giant  frozen  into  stone  I 
Son  of  the  throned  Sachem  !  —  Thou, 
The  sternest  of  the  forest  kings,  — 
Shall  the  scorned  pale-one  trample  now, 
Unambushed  on  thy  mountain's  brow, 
Yea,  drive  his  vile  and  hated  plough 

Among  thy  nation's  holy  things, 
Crushing  the  warrior-skeleton 
In  scorn  beneath  his  armed  heel, 
And  not  a  hand  be  left  to  deal 
A  kindred  vengeance  fiercely  back, 
And  cross  in  blood  the  Spoiler's  track  ? 

He  turned  him  to  his  trustiest  one, 
The  old  and  war-tried  Annawon  — 
"  Brother  !  "  —  The  favored  warrior  stood 

In  hushed  and  listening  attitude  — 
"  This  night  the  Vision-Spirit  hath 

Unrolled  the  scroll  of  fate  before  me  ; 
And  ere  the  sunrise  cometh,  Death 

Will  wave  his  dusky  pinion  o'er  me  ! 
Nay,  start  not  —  well  I  know  thy  faith  — 
Thy  weapon  now  may  keep  its  sheath  ; 
But,  when  the  bodeful  morning  breaks, 
And  the  green  forest  widely  wakes 

Unto  the  roar  of  English  thunder, 
Then  trusted  brother,  be  it  thine 
To  burst  upon  the  foeman's  line, 
And  rend  his  serried  strength  asunder. 
Perchance  thyself  and  yet  a  few 
Of  faithful  ones  may  struggle  through, 
And,  rallying  on  the  wooded  plain, 
Strike  deep  for  vengeance  once  again, 
And  offer  up  in  pale-face  blood 
An  offering  to  the  Indian's  God." 

A  musket  shot  —  a  sharp,  quick  yell  — 
And  then  the  stifled  groan  of  pain, 


Told  that  another  red  man  fell,  — 
And  blazed  a  sudden  light  again 
Across  that  kingly  brow  and  eye, 
Like  lightning  on  a  clouded  sky,  — 
And  a  low  growl,  like  that  which  thrills 
The  hunter  of  the  Eastern  hills, 

Burst  through  clenched  teeth  and  rigid  lip  •— 
And,  when  the  great  chief  spoke  again 
His  deep  voice  shook  beneath  its  rein, 
As  wrath  and  grief  held  fellowship. 

"  Brother !  methought  when  as  but  now 

I  pondered  on  my  nation's  wrong, 
With  sadness  on  his  shadowy  brow 

My  father's  spirit  passed  along ! 
He  pointed  to  the  far  south-west, 

Where  sunset's  gold  was  growing  dim, 

And  seemed  to  beckon  me  to  him, 
And  to  the  forests  of  the  blest !  — 
My  father  loved  the  white  men,  when 
They  were  but  children,  shelterless, 
For  his  great  spirit  at  distress 
Melted  to  woman's  tenderness  — 
Nor  was  it  given  him  to  know 

That  children  whom  he  cherished  then 

Would  rise  at  length,  like  armed  men, 
To  work  his  people's  overthrow. 
Yet  thus  it  is  ;  —  the  God  before 

Whose  awful  shrine  the  pale  ones  bow 
Hath  frowned  upon,  and  given  o'er 

The  red  man  to  the  stranger  now  ! 
A  few  more  moons,  and  there  will  be 
No  gathering  to  the  council  tree  ; 
The  scorched  earth  —  the  blackened  log — 

The  naked  bones  of  warriors  slain, 

Be  the  sole  relics  which  remain 
Of  the  once  mighty  Wampanoag ! 
The  forests  of  our  hunting-land, 

With  all  their  old  and  solemn  green, 
Will  bow  before  the  Spoiler's  axe  — 
The  plough  displace  the  hunter's  tracks, 
And  the  tall  prayer-house  steeple  stand 

Where  the  Great  Spirit's  shrine  hath  been 

'  Yet,  brother,  from  this  awful  hour 

The  dying  curse  of  Metacom 
Shall  linger  with  abiding  power 

Upon  the  spoilers  of  my  home. 

The  fearful  veil  of  things  to  come, 

By  Kitchtan's  hand  is  lifted  from 
The  shadows  of  the  embryo  years  ; 

And  I  can  see  more  clearly  through 
Than  ever  visioned  Powwaw  did, 
For  all  the  future  comes  unbid 

Yet  welcome  to  my  tranced  view, 
As  battle-yell  to  warrior-ears  ! 
From  stream  and  lake  and  hunting-hill 

Our  tribes  may  vanish  like  a  dream, 

And  even  my  dark  curse  may  seem 
Like  idle  winds  when  Heaven  is  still, 

No  bodeful  harbinger  of  ill ; 
But,  fiercer  than  the  downright  thunder, 
When  yawns  the  mountain-rock  asunder, 
And  riven  pine  and  knotted  oak 
Are  reeling  to  the  fearful  stroke, 

That  curse  shall  work  its  master's  will ! 
The  bed  of  yon  blue  mountain  stream 


490 


APPENDIX 


Shall  pour  a  darker  tide  than  rain  — 
The  sea  shall  catch  its  blood-red  stain, 
And  broadly  on  its  banks  shall  gleam 

The  steel  of  those  who  should  be  brothers  ; 
Yea,  those  whom  one  fond  parent  nursed 
Shall  meet  in  strife,  like  fiends  accursed, 
And  trample  down  the  once  loved  form, 
While  yet  with  breathing  passion  warm, 

As  fiercely  as  they  would  another's !  " 

The  morning  star  sat  dimly  on 
The  lighted  eastern  horizon  — 
The  deadly  glare  of  levelled  gun 

Came  streaking  through  the  twilight  haze 

And  naked  to  its  reddest  blaze, 
A  hundred  warriors  sprang  in  view  ; 

One  dark  red  arm  was  tossed  on  high, 
One  giant  shout  came  hoarsely  through 

The  clangor  and  the  charging  cry, 
Just  as  across  the  scattering  gloom, 
Red  as  the  naked  hand  of  Doom, 

The  English  volley  hurtled  by  — 
The  arm  —  the  voice  of  Metacom  !  — 

One  piercing  shriek  —  one  vengeful  yell, 
Sent  like  an  arrow  to  the  sky, 

Told  when  the  hunter-monarch  fell ! 


MOUNT   AGIOCHOOK 

The  Indians  supposed  the  White  Mountains 
were  the  residence  of  powerful  spirits,  and  in 
consequence  rarely  ascended  them. 

GRAY  searcher  of  the  upper  air, 

There  's  sunshine  on  thy  ancient  walls, 
A  crown  upon  thy  forehead  bare, 

A  flash  upon  thy  waterfalls, 
A  rainbow  glory  in  the  cloud 

Upon  thine  awful  summit  bowed, 
The  radiant  ghost  of  a  dead  storm  ! 

And  music  from  the  leafy  shroud 
Which  swathes  in  green  thy  giant  form, 

Mellowed  and  softened  from  above 
Steals  downward  to  the  lowland  ear, 

Sweet  as  the  first,  fond  dream  of  love 
That  melts  upon  the  maiden's  ear. 

The  time  has  been,  white  giant,  when 

Thy  shadows  veiled  the  red  man's  home, 
And  over  crag  and  serpent  den, 
And  wild  gorge  where  the  steps  of  men 

In  chase  or  battle  might  not  come, 
The  mountain  eagle  bore  on  high 

The  emblem  of  the  free  of  soul, 
And,  midway  in  the  fearful  sky, 
Sent  back  the  Indian  battle  cry, 

And  answered  to  the  thunder's  roll. 

The  wigwam  fires  have  all  burned  out, 
The  moccasin  has  left  no  track  ; 

Nor  wolf  nor  panther  roam  about 
The  Saco  and  the  Merrimac. 

And  thou,  that  liftest  up  on  high 

Thy  mighty  barriers  to  the  sky, 
Art  not  the  haunted  mount  of  old, 

Where  on  each  crag  of  blasted  stone 


Some  dreadful  spirit  found  his  throne, 
And  hid  within  the  thick  cloud  fold, 
Heard  only  in  the  thunder's  crash, 
Seen  only  in  the  lightning's  flash, 
When  crumbled  rock  and  riven  branch 
Went  down  before  the  avalanche  ! 

No  more  that  spirit  moveth  there  ; 

The  dwellers  of  the  vale  are  dead  ; 
No  hunter's  arrow  cleaves  the  air ; 

No  dry  leaf  rustles  to  his  tread. 
The  pale-face  climbs  thy  tallest  rock, 
His  hands  thy  crystal  gates  unlock  ; 
From  steep  to  steep  his  maidens  call, 
Light  laughing,  like  the  streams  that  fall 
In  music  down  thy  rocky  wall, 
And  only  when  their  careless  tread 
Lays  bare  an  Indian  arrow-head, 
Spent  and  forgetful  of  the  deer, 
Think  of  the  race  that  perished  here. 

Oh,  sacred  to  the  Indian  seer, 

Gray  altar  of  the  men  of  old  ! 
Not  vainly  to  the  listening  ear 

The  legends  of  thy  past  are  told,  — 
Tales  of  the  downward  sweeping  flood, 
When  bowed  like  reeds  thy  ancient  wood  ; 
Of  armed  hands,  and  spectral  forms ; 
Of  giants  in  their  leafy  shroud, 
And  voices  calling  long  and  loud 
In  the  dread  pauses  of  thy  storms. 
For  still  within  their  caverned  home 
Dwell  the  strange  gods  of  heathendom  ! 


THE    DRUNKARD    TO    HIS    BOTTLE 

I  was  thinking  of  the  temperance  lyrics  the 
great  poet  of  Scotland  might  have  written  had 
he  put  his  name  to  a  pledge  of  abstinence,  a 
thing  unhappily  unknown  in  his  day.  The 
result  of  my  cogitation  was  this  poor  imitation 
of  his  dialect. 

HOOT  !  —  daur  ye  shaw  ye're  face  again, 
Ye  auld  black  thief  o'  purse  an'  brain  ? 
For  foul  disgrace,  for  dool  an'  pain 

An'  shame  I  ban  ye  : 
Wae  's  me,  that  e'er  my  lips  have  ta'en 

Your  kiss  uncanny ! 

Nae  mair,  auld  knave,  without  a  shillin' 

To  keep  a  starvin'  wight  frae  stealin' 

Ye  '11  sen'  me  hameward,  blin'  and  reeling 

Frae  nightly  swagger, 
By  wall  an'  post  my  pathway  feelin', 

Wi'  mony  a  stagger. 

Nae  mair  o'  fights  that  bruise  an'  mangle, 
Nae  mair  o'  nets  my  feet  to  tangle, 
Nae  mair  o'  senseless  brawl  an'  wrangle, 

Wi'  frien'  an'  wife  too, 
Nae  mair  o'  deavin'  din  an'  jangle 

My  feckless  life  through. 

Ye  thievin',  cheatin'  auld  Cheap  Jack, 
Peddlin'  your  poison  brose,  I  crack 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


491 


four  banes  against  my  ingle-back 

Wi'  meikle  pleasure. 
Deil  mend  ye  i'  his  workshop  black, 
E'en  at  his  leisure  ! 

I  '11  brak  ye 're  neck,  ye  foul  auld  sinner, 
I  '11  spill  ye' re  bluid,  ye  vile  beginner 
O'  a'  the  ills  an'  aches  that  winna 

Quat  saul  an'  body  ! 
Gie  me  hale  braeks  an'  weel-spread  dinner  • 

Deil  tak'  ye're  toddy  ! 

Nae  mair  wi'  witches'  broo  gane  gyte, 
Gie  me  ance  mair  the  auld  delight 
O'  sittin'  wi'  my  bairns  in  sight, 

The  gude  wife  near, 
The  weel-spent  day,  the  peacefu'  night, 

The  niornin'  cheer ! 

Cock  a'  ye're  heids,  my  bairns  fu'  gleg, 
My  winsome  Robin,  Jean,  an'  Meg, 
For  food  and  claes  ye  shall  na  beg 

A  doited  daddie. 
Dance,  auld  wife,  on  your  girl-day  leg, 

Ye  Ve  foun'  your  laddie  ! 


THE    FAIR    QUAKERESS 

SHE  was  a  fair  young  girl,  yet  on  her  brow 
No  pale  pearl  shone,  a  blemish  on  the  pure 
And  snowy  lustre  of  its  living  light, 
No  radiant  gem  shone  beautifully  through 
The  shadowing  of  her  tresses,  as  a  star 
Through   the   dark  sky  of   midnight ;  and  no 

wreath 

Of  coral  circled  on  her  queenly  neck, 
In  mockery  of  the  glowing  cheek  and  lip, 
Whose  hue  the  fairy  guardian  of  the  flowers 
Might  never  rival  when  her  djlicate  touch 
Vinges  the  rose  of  springtime. 

Unadorned, 

Save  by  her  youthful  charms,  and  with  a  garb 
Simple  as  Nature's  self,  why  turn  to  her 
The  proud  and  gifted,  and  the  versed  in  all 
The  pageantry  of  fashion  ? 

She  hath  not 

Moved  down  the  dance  to  music,  when  the  hall 
Is  lighted  up  like  sunshine,  and  the  thrill 
Of  the  light  viol  and  the  mellow  flute, 
And  the  deep  tones  of  manhood,  softened  down 
To  very  music  melt  upon  the  ear.  — 
She  has  not  mingled  with  the  hollow  world 
Nor  tampered  with  its  mockeries,  until  all 
The  delicate  perceptions  of  the  heart, 
The  innate  modesty,  the  watchful  sense 
Of  maiden  dignity,  are  lost  within 
The  maze  of  fashion  and  the  din  of  crowds. 

Yet    Beauty  hath    its    homage.     Kings  have 

bowed 

From  the  tall  majesty  of  ancient  thrones 
With  a  prostrated  knee,  yea,  cast  aside 
The  awf  ulness  of  time-created  power 


For  the  regardful  glances  of  a  child. 
Yea,  the  high  ones  ami  powerful  of  Earth, 
The  helmed  sons  of  victory,  the  grave 
And  schooled  philosophers,  the  giant  men 
Of  overmastering  intellect,  have  turned 
Each  from  the  separate  idol  of  his  high 
And  vehement  ambition  for  the  low 
Idolatry  of  human  loveliness  ; 
And  bartered  the  sublimity  of  mind, 
The  godlike  and  commanding  intellect 
Which  nations  knelt  to,  for  a  woman's  tear, 
A  soft-toned  answer,  or  a  wanton's  smile. 

And  in  the  chastened  beauty  of  that  eye, 

And  in  the  beautiful  play  of  that  red  lip, 

And  in  the  quiet  smile,  and  in  the  voice 

Sweet  as  the  tuneful  greeting  of  a  bird 

To  the  first  flowers  of  springtime,  there  is  more 

Than  the  perfection  of  the  painter's  skill 

Or  statuary's  moulding.     Mind  is  there, 

The  pure  and  holy  attributes  of  soul, 

The  seal  of  virtue,  the  exceeding  grace 

Of  meekness  blended  with  a  maiden  pride ; 

Nor  deem  ye  that  beneath  the  gentle  smile, 

And  the  calm  temper  of  a  chastened  mind 

No  warmth  of  passion  kindles,  and  no  tide 

Of  quick  and  earnest  feeling  courses  on 

From  the  warm  heart's  pulsations.     There  are 

springs 

Of  deep  and  pure  affection,  hidden  now, 
Within  that  quiet  bosom,  which  but  wait 
The  thrilling  of  some  kindly  touch,  to  flow 
Like  waters  from  the  Desert-rock  of  old. 


BOLIVAR 

A  DIRGE  is  wailing  from  the  Gulf  of  storm- 

vexed  Mexico, 
To  where  through  Pampas'  solitudes  the  mighty 

rivers  flow ; 
The  dark  Sierras  hear  the  sound,  and  from  each 

mountain  rift, 

Where  Andes  and  Cordilleras  their  awful  sum 
mits  lift, 
Where  Cotopaxi's  fiery  eye  glares  redly  upon 

heaven, 
And   Chimborazo's  shattered  peak  the  upper 

sky  has  riven  ; 
From  mount  to  mount,  from  wave  to  wave,  a 

wild  and  long  lament, 
A  sob  that  shakes   like   her  earthquakes  the 

startled  condnent ! 

A  light  dies  out,  a  life  is  sped  —  the  hero's  at 
whose  word 

The  nations  started  as  from  sleep,  and  girded 
on  the  sword  ; 

The  victor  of  a  hundred  fields  where  blood  was 
poured  like  rain, 

And  Freedom's  loosened  avalanche  hurled  down 
the  hosts  of  Spain, 

The  eagle  soul  on  Junin's  slope  who  showed  his 
shouting  men 

A  grander  sight,  than  Balboa  saw  from  wave- 
washed  Darien. 


492 


APPENDIX 


As  from  the  snows  with  battle  red  died  out  the 

sinking  sun, 
And  broad  and  vast  beneath  him  lay  a  world 

for  freedom  won. 

How  died  that  victor  ?  In  the  field  with  ban 
ners  o'er  him  thrown, 

With  trumpets  in  his  failing  ear,  by  charging 
squadrons  blown, 

With  scattered  foemen  flying  fast  and  fearfully 
before  him, 

With  :>houts  of  triumph  swelling  round  and 
brave  men  bending  o'er  him? 

Not  on  his  fields  of  victory,  nor  in  his  council 
hall, 

The  worn  and  sorrowing  leader  heard  the  inev 
itable  call. 

Alone  he  perished  in  the  land  he  saved  from 
slavery's  ban, 

Maligned  and  doubted  and  denied,  a  broken 
hearted  man ! 

Now  let  the  New  World's  banners  droop  above 

the  fallen  chief, 
And  let  the  mountaineer's  dark  eyes  be  wet 

with  tears  of  grief  1 

For  slander's  sting,  for  envy's  hiss,  for  friend 
ship  hatred  grown, 
Can  funeral  pomp,  and  tolling  bell,  and  priestly 

mass  atone  ? 
Better  to  leave  unmourned  the  dead  than  wrong 

men  while  they  live  ; 
What  if  the  strong  man  failed  or  erred,  could 

not  his  own  forgive  ? 
0  people  freed  by  him,  repent  above  your  hero's 

bier: 
The  sole  resource  of  late   remorse  is  now  his 

tomb  to  rear ! 


ISABELLA  OF  AUSTRIA 

Isabella,  Infanta  of  Parma,  and  consort  of 
Joseph  of  Austria,  predicted  her  own  death, 
immediately  after  her  marriage  with  the  Em 
peror.  Amidst  the  gayety  and  splendor  of 
Vienna  and  Presburg1,  she  was  reserved  and 
melancholy;  she  believed  that  Heaven  had 
given  her  a  view  of  the  future,  and  that  her 
child,  the  namesake  of  the  great  Maria  The 
resa,  would  perish  with  her.  Her  prediction 
was  fulfilled. 

'MiDST  the  palace  bowers  of  Hungary,  imperial 

Presburg's  pride, 
With  the  noble  born  and  beautiful  assembled 

at  her  side, 
She  stood  beneath  the  summer  heavens,  the  soft 

wind  sighing  011, 
Stirring    the    green  and   arching  boughs    like 

dancers  in  the  sun. 
The  beautiful  pomegranate  flower,  the  snowy 

orange  bloom, 
The  lotus  and    the  trailing  vine,    the   rose's 

meek  perfume, 


The  willow  crossing  with  its  green  some  statue's 

marble  hair, 
All  that  might  charm  the  fresh  young  sense,  or 

light  the  soul,  was  there  ! 

But   she,  a  monarch's   treasured   one,   leaned 

gloomily  apart, 
With  her  dark  eyes  tearfully  cast  down;  and 

a  shadow  on  her  heart. 
Young,  beautiful,  and  dearly  loved,  what  sorrow 

hath  she  known  ? 
Are    not  the  hearts  and  swords   of   all  held 

sacred  as  her  own  '.' 
Is  not  her  lord  the  kingliest  in  battle-field  or 

tower  ? 
The  wisest  in  the   council-hall,   the  gayest  in 

the  bower  ? 
Is   not  his  love  as  full  and  deep  as   his   own 

Danube's  tide  ? 
And  wherefore    in   her-    princely  home  weeps 

Isabel,  his  bride  ? 

She  raised  her  jewelled   hand,  and  flung  her 

veiling  tresses  back, 
Bathing  its  snowy  tapering  within  their  glossy 

A  tear  fell  on  the  orange  leaves,  rich  gem  and 

mimic  blossom, 
And   fringed   robe  shook    fearfully  upon   her 

sighing  bosom. 
"Smile    on,   smile   on,"  she   murmured     low, 

"  for  all  is  joy  around, 
Shadow  and  sunshine,  stainless  sky,  soft  airs. 

and  blossomed  ground. 
'Tis  meet  the   light   of    heart    should   smile, 

when  nature's  smile  is  fair, 
And  melody  and  fragrance  meet,   twin  sisters 

of  the  air. 

"  But  ask  me  not  to  share  with  you  the  beauty 

of  the  scene, 
The  fountain-fall,  mosaic  walk,  and  breadth? 

of  tender  green  ; 
And  point  not  to  the  mild  blue  sky,  or  glorious 

summer  sun, 
I  know  how  very  fair  is  all  the  hr.nd  of  God 

has  done. 
The  hills,  the  sky,  the  sunlit  cloud,  the  waters 

leaping  forth, 
The   swaying  trees,    the  scented   flowers,   the 

dark  green  robes  of  earth,  — 
1  love  them  well,  but  I  have  learned  to  turn 

aside  from  all, 
And    nevermore    my  heart    must    own   their 

sweet  but  fatal  thrall. 

"  And  I  could  love  the  noble  one  whose  mighty 
name  I  bear, 

And  closer  to  my  breaking  heart  his  princely 
image  wear, 

And  I  could  love  our  sweet  young  flower,  un 
folding  day  by  day, 

And  taste  of  that  unearthly  joy  which  mothers 
only  mayi  — 

But  what  am  I  to  cling  tc  these  ?  —  A  voice  isj 
in  my  ear, 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


A  shadow  lingers  at  my  side,  the  death-wail 

and  the  bier ! 
The   cold    and  starless  night  of  Death  where 

day  may  never  beam, 
The  silence  and   forgetfulness,  the  sleep  that 

hath  no  dream ! 

"0  God,  to  leave  this  fair  bright  world,  and 
more  than  all  to  know 

The  moment  when  the  Spectral  One  shall 
strike  his  fearful  blow  ; 

To  know  the  day,  the  very  hour,  to  feel  the 
tide  roll  on, 

To  shudder  at  the  gloom  before  and  weep  the 
sunshine  gone ; 

To  count  ih^  days,  the  few  short  days,  of  light 
and  love  and  breath 

Between  me  and  the  noisome  grave,  the  voice 
less  home  of  death  ! 

Alas  I  —  if  feeling,  knowing  this,  I  murmur  at 
my  doom, 

Let  not  thy  froAvning,  0  my  God !  lend  dark 
ness  to  the  tomb. 

"Oh,  I  have  borne  my  spirit  up,  and  smiled 

amidst  the  chill 

Remembrance  of   my  certain  doom  which  lin 
gers  with  me  still ; 
I  woiild  not  cloud  my  fair  child's  brow,  nor  let 

a  tear-drop  dim 
The  eye  that  met  my  wedded  lord's,  lest  it 

should  sadden  him ; 
But  there  are  moments  when  the  strength  of 

feeling  must  have  way  ; 
That  hidden  fide  of  unnamed  woe  nor  fear  nor 

love  can  stay. 
Smile  on,  smile  on,  light-hearted  ones  !     Your 

sun  of  joy  is  high  : 
Smile  on,  and  leave  the   doomed  of  Heaven 

alone  to  weep  and  die  !  " 

A  funeral  chant  was  wailing  through  Vienna's 

holy  pile, 
A  coffin  with  its  gorgeous  pall  was  borne  along 

the  aisle  ; 
The  drooping  flags  of  many  lands  waved  slow 

above  the  dead, 
A  mighty  band  of  mourners  came,  a  king  was 

at  its  head,  — 
A  youthful  king,   with  mournful  tread,  and 

dim  and  tearful  eye  ; 
He  scarce  had  dreamed  that  one  so  pure  as  his 

fair  bride  could  die. 
And  sad  and  long  above  the  throng  the  funeral 

anthem  rung : 
"  Mourn  for  the  hope  of  Austria !    M-urn  for 

the  loved  and  young  !  " 

The  wail  went  up  from  other  lands,  the  valleys 
of  the  Hun, 

Fair  Parma  with  its  orange  bowers,  and  hills  of 
vine  and  sun  : 

The  lilies  of  imperial  France  drooped  as  the 
sound  went  by, 

The  long  lament  of  cloistered  Spain  was  min 
gled  with  the  cry. 


The  dwellers  in  Colorno's  halls,  the  Slowak  at 

his  cave, 
The  bowed  at  the  Escurial,  the  Magyar  stoutly 

brave, 
All  wept  the  early  stricken  flower  ;  and  still 

the  anthem  rung : 
"Mourn  for  the  pride  of  Austria!     Mourn  for 

the  loved  and  young  !  " 


THE   FRATRICIDE 

HE  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  well-known  hill, 
Its  few  gray  oaks  moan'd  over  him  still ; 
The  last  of  that  forest  which  cast  the  gloom 
Of  its  shadow  at  eve  o'er  his  childhood's  home ; 
And  the  beautiful  valley  beneath  him  lay 
With  its  quivering  leaves,  and  its  streams  at 

And  the  sunshine  over  it  all  the  while 
Like  the  golden  shower  of  the  Eastern  isle. 

He  knew  the  rock  with  its  fingering  vine, 
And  its  gray  top  touch'd  by  the  slant  sunshine, 
And  the  delicate  stream  which  crept  beneath 
Soft  as  the  flow  of  an  infant's  breath  ; 
And  the  flowers  which    lean'd   to  the  West 

wind's  sigh, 

Kissing  each  ripple  which  glided  by  ; 
And  he  knew  every  valley  and  wooded  swell, 
For  the  visions  of  childhood  are  treasured  well. 

Why  shook  the  old  man  as  his  eye  glanced  down 
That  narrow  ravine  where  the  rude  cliffs  frown, 
With  their  shaggy  brows  and  their  teeth  of 

stone, 
And  their  grim  shade  back  from  the  sunlight 

thrown  ? 

What  saw  he  there  save  the  dreary  glen, 
Where  the  shy  fox  crept  from  the  eye  of  men, 
And  the  great  owl  sat  on  the  leafy  limb 
That  the  hateful  sun  might  not  look  on  him  ? 

Fix'd,  glassy,  and  strange  was  that  old  man's 

eye, 

As  if  a  spectre  Ayere  stealing  by, 
And  glared  it  still  on  that  narrow  deli 
Where  thicker  and  browner  the  twilight  fell ; 
Yet  at  every  sigh  of  the  fitful  wind, 
Or  stirring  of  leaves  in  the  wood  behind, 
His  wild  glance  wander'd  the  landscape  o'er, 
Then  fix'd  on  that  desolate  dell  once  more. 

Oh,  who  shall  tell  of  the  thoughts  which  ran 
Through  the   dizzied  brain  of  that  gray  old 

man? 

His  childhood's  home,  and  hi~  father's  toil, 
And  his  sister's  kiss,  and  his  mother's  smile,, 
And  his  brother's  laughter  and  gamesome  mirth. 
At  the  village  school  and  the  winter  hearth  ; 
The  beautiful  thoughts  of  his  early  time, 
Ere  his  heart  grew  dark  with  its  later  crime. 

And  darker  and  wilder  his  visions  came 
Of  the  deadly  ft  iul  and  the  midnight  flame, 
Of  ohe  Indian's  knife  with  its  slaughter  red, 
Of  the  ghastly  forms  of  the  scalpless  dead, 


494 


APPENDIX 


Of  his  own  fierce  deeds  in  that  fearful  hour 
When  the  terrible  Brandt  was  forth  in  power, 
And  he  clasp'd  his  hands  o'er  his  burning  eye 
To  shadow  the  vision  which  glided  by. 

It  came  with  the  rush  of  the  battle-storm  — 
With  a  brother's  shaken  and  kneeling  form, 
And  his  prayer  for  life  when  a  brother's  arm 
Was  lifted  above  him  for  mortal  harm, 
And  the  fiendish  curse,  and  the  groan  of  death, 
And  the   welling  of   blood,  and   the   gurgling 

breath, 
And  the  scalp  torn  off  while  each  nerve  could 

feel 
The  wrenching  hand  and  the  jagged  steel ! 

And  the  old  man  groan'd  —  for  he  saw,  again, 

The  mangled  corse  of  his  kinsman  slain, 

As  it  lay  where  his  hand  had  hurl'd  it  then, 

At  the  shadow'd  foot  of  that  fearful  glen  ! 

And  it  rose  erect,  with  the  death-pang  grim, 

And  pointed  its  bloodied  finger  at  him  ! 

And   his   heart  grew  cold  —  and  the  curse  of 

Cain 
Burn'd  like  a  fire  in  the  old  man's  brain. 

Oh,  had  he  not  seen  that  spectre  rise 
On  the  blue  of  the  cold  Canadian  skies  ? 
From   the  lakes  which  sleep    in    the   ancient 

wood, 

It  had  risen  to  whisper  its  tale  of  blood, 
And  follow'd  his  bark  to  the  sombre  shore, 
And  glared  by  night  through  the  wigwam  door  ; 
And  here,  on  his  own  familiar  hill, 
It  rose  on  his  haunted  vision  still ! 

Whose    corse  was   that  which    the    morrow's 

sun, 
Through   the    opening  boughs,   look'd  calmly 

on? 

There  were  those  who  bent  o'er  that  rigid  face 
Who  well  in  its  darken'd  lines  might  trace 
The  features  of  him  who,  a  traitor,  fled 
From  a  brother  whose  blood  himself  had  shed, 
And  there,  on  the  spot  where  he  strangely  died, 
They  made  the  grave  of  the  Fratricide  ! 


ISABEL 

I  DO  not  love  thee,  Isabel,  and  yet  thou  art 

most  fair ! 
£  know  the  tempting  of  thy  lips,  the  witchcraft 

of  thy  hair, 
The  winsome  smile  that  might  beguile  the  shy 

bird  from  his  tree  ; 
But  from  their  spell  I  know  so  well,  I  shake  my 

manhood  free. 

I  might  have  loved  thee,  Isabel ;  I  know  I 
should  if  aught 

Of  all  thy  words  and  ways  had  told  of  one  un 
selfish  thought  ; 

If  through  the  cloud  of  fashion,  the  pictured 
veil  of  art, 

One  casual  flash  had  broken  warm,  earnest 
from  the  heart 


But  words  are  idle,  Isabel,  and  if  I  praise  01 

blame, 
Or  cheer  or  warn,  it  matters  not  ;  thy  life  will 

be  the  same  ; 
Still  free  to  use,  and  still  abuse,  unmindful  of 

the  harm, 
The  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  the  power  to  choose 

and  charm. 

Then  go  thy  way,   fair  Isabel,  nor  heed  that 

from  thy  train 
A  doubtful  follower  falls  away,  enough  will  still 

remain. 
But  what  the  long-rebuking  years  may  bring  to 

them  or  thee 
No  prophet  and  no  prophet's  son  am  I  to  guess 

or  see. 

I  do  not  love  thee,  Isabel ;  I  would  as  soon  put 

on 
A  crown  of  slender  frost-work  beneath  the 

heated  sun, 
Or  chase  the  winds  of  summer,  or  trust  the 

sleeping  sea, 
Or  lean  upon  a  shadow  as  think  of  loving  thee. 


STANZAS 

BIND  up  thy  tresses,  thou  beautiful  one, 
Of  brown  in  the  shadow  and  gold  in  the  sun  ! 
Free  should  their  delicate  lustre  be  thrown 
O'er  a  forehead   more   pure  than  the    Pariah 

stone  ; 

Shaming  the  light  of  those  Orient  pearls 
Which  bind  o'er  its  whiteness  thy  soft  wreath 
ing  curls. 

Smile,  for  thy  glance  on  the  mirror  is  thrown, 
And   the   face   of    an   angel   is   meeting   thine 

own ! 

Beautiful  creature,  I  marvel  not 
That  thy  cheek  a  lovelier  tint  hath  caught ; 
And  the  kindling  light  of  thine  eye  hath  told 
Of  a  dearer  wealth  than  the  miser's  gold. 

Away,  away,  there  is  danger  here  ! 

A  terrible  phantom  is  bending  near  : 

Ghastly  and  sunken,  his  rayless  eye 

Scowls  on  thy  loveliness  scornfully, 

With  no  human  look,  with  no  human  breath, 

He  stands  beside  thee,  the  haunter,  Death  I 

Fly  !  but,  alas  !  he  will  follow  still, 
Like  a  moonlight  shadow,  beyond  thy  will ; 
In  thy  noonday  walk,  in  thy  midnight  sleep, 
Close  at  thy  hand  will  that  phantom  keep ; 
Still  in  thine  ear  shall  his  whispers  be  ; 
Woe,  that  such  phantom  should  follow  thee  t 

In  the  lighted  hall  where  the  dancers  go, 

Like  beautiful  spirits,  to  and  fro  ; 

When  thy  fair  arms  glance  in  their  stainless 

white, 

Like  ivory  bathed  in  still  moonlight ; 
And  not  one  star  in  the  holy  sky 
Hath  a  cleare*-  light  than  thine  own  blue  eye  I 


EARLY  AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


495 


Oh,  then,  even  then,  he  will  follow  thee, 
As  the  ripple  follows  the  bark  at  sea ; 
In  the  soften'd  light,  in  the  turning  dance, 
He  will  fix  on  thine  his  dead,  cold  glance  ; 
The  chill  of  his  breath  on  thy  cheek  shall  linger, 
And  thy  warm  blood  shrink  from  his  icy  finger  I 

And  yet  there  is  hope.     Embrace  it  now, 
While  thy  soul  is  open  as  thy  brow  ; 
While  thy  heart  is  fresh,  while  its  feelings  still 
Gush  clear  as  the  unsoil'd  mountain-rill ; 
And  thy  smiles  are  free  as  the  airs  of  spring, 
Greeting  and  blessing  each  breathing  thing. 

When  the  after  cares  of  thy  life  shall  come, 
When  the  bud  shall  wither  before  its  bloom  ; 
When  thy  soul  is  sick  of  the  emptiness 
And  changeful  fashion  of  human  bliss  ; 
Wrhen  the  weary  torpor  of  blighted  feeling 
Over  thy  heart  as  ice  is  stealing  ; 

Then,  when  thy  spirit  is  turn'd  above, 
By  the  mild  rebuke  of  the  Chastener's  love  ; 
When  the  hope  of  that  joy  in  thy  heart  is  stirr'd, 
Which  eye  hath  not  seen,  nor  ear  hath  heard, 
Then  will  that  phantom  of  darkness  be 
Gladness,  and  promise,  and  bliss  to  thee. 


MOGG   MEGONE 

This  poem  was  commenced  in  1830,  but 
did  not  assume  its  present  shape  until  four 
years  after.  It  deals  with  the  border  strife  of 
the  early  settlers  of  eastern  New  England  and 
their  savage  neighbors ;  but  its  personages 
and  incidents  are  mainly  fictitious.  Looking 
at  it,  at  the  present  time,  it  suggests  the  idea 
of  a  big  Indian  in  his  war-paint  strutting 
about  in  Sir  Walter  Scott's  plaid. 

PART  I 

WHO  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure  of  stone, 
Unmoving  and  tall  in  the  light  of  the  sky, 
Where  the  spray  of  the  cataract  sparkles  on 

high, 

Lonely  and  sternly,  save  Mogg  Megone  ? 
Close  to  the  verge  of  the  rock  is  he, 

While  beneath  him  the  Saco  its  work  is  do 
ing, 
Hurrying  down  to  its  grave,  the  sea, 

And  slow  through  the  rock  its  pathway  hew 
ing! 

Far  down,  through  the  mist  of  the  falling  river, 
Which  rises  up  like  an  incense  ever, 
The  splintered  points  of  the  crags  are  seen, 
With  water  howling  and  vexed  between, 
While  the  scooping  whirl  of  the  pool  beneath 
Seems  an  open  throat,  with  its  granite  teeth  1 

But  Mogg  Megone  never  trembled  yet 

Wherever  his  eye  or  his  foot  was  set. 

He  is  watchful:  each  form  in  the  moonlight 

dim, 
Of  rock  or  of  tree,  is  seen  of  him  : 


He  listens  ;  each  sound  from  afar  is  caught, 

The  faintest  shiver  of  leaf  and  limb : 

But  he  sees  not  the  waters,  which  foam  and 

fret, 

Whose  moonlit  spray  has  his  moccasin  wet,  — 
And  the  roar  of  their  rushing,  he  hears  it  not. 

The  moonlight,  through  the  open  bough 

Of  the  gnarl'd  beech,  whose  naked  root 

Coils  like  a  serpent  at  his  foot, 
Falls,  checkered,  on  the  Indian's  brow 
His  head  is  bare,  save  only  where 
Waves  in  the  wind  one  lock  of  hair, 

Reserved  for  him,  whoe'er  he  be, 
More  mighty  than  Megone  in  strife, 

When  breast  to  breast  and  knee  to  knee, 
Above  the  fallen  warrior's  life 
Gleams,  quick  and  keen,  the  scalping-knife. 


And  his  gaudy  and  tasselled  blanket  on : 
His  knife  hath  a  handle  with  gold  inlaid, 
And  magic  v/ords  on  its  polished  blade,  — 
'T  was  the  gift  of  Castine  to  Mogg  Megone, 
For  a  scalp  or  twain  from  the  Yengees  torn : 
His  gun  was  the  gift  of  the  Tarrantine, 

And  Modocawando's  wives  had  strung 
The  brass  and  the  beads,  which  tinkle  and  shine 
On  the  polished  breech,  and  broad  bright  line 

Of  beaded  wampum  around  it  hung. 

What  seeks  Megone  ?    His  foes  are  near,  — 

Grey  Jocelyn's  eye  is  never  sleeping, 
And  the  garrison  lights  are  burning  clear, 

Where  Phillips'  men  their  watch  are  keeping. 
Let  him  hie  him  away  through  the  dank  river 

fog, 
Never  rustling  the  boughs  nor  displacing  the 

rocks, 
For  the  eyes  and  the  ears  which  are  watching 

for  Mogg 
Are  keener  than  those  of  the  wolf  or  the  fox. 

He  starts,  —  there 's  a  rustle  among  the  leaves : 

Another,  —  the  click  of  his  gun  is  heard  ! 
A  footstep,  —  is  it  the  step  of  Cleaves, 

With  Indian  blood  on  his  English  sword  ? 
Steals  Harmon  down  from  the  sands  of  York, 
With  hand  of  iron  and  foot  of  cork  ? 
Has  Scamman,  versed  in  Indian  wile, 
For  vengeance  left  his  vine-hung  isle  ? 
Hark  !  at  that  whistle,  soft  and  low, 

How  lights  the  eye  of  Mogg  Megone  t 
A  smile  gleams  o'er  his  dusky  brow,  — 

"  Boon  welcome,  Johnny  Boniton  !  " 

Out  steps,  with  cautious  foot  and  slow, 
And  quick,  keen  glances  to  and  fro, 

The  hunted  outlaw,  Boniton  ! 
A  low,  lean,  swarthy  man  is  he, 
With  blanket-garb  and  buskined  knee, 

And  naught  of  English  fashion  on  ; 
For  he  hates  the  race  from  whence  he  sprung, 
And  he  couches  his  words  in  the  Indian  tongue. 

"  Hush,  — let  the  Sachem's  voice  be  weak  ; 
The  water-rat  shall  hear  him  speak,  — 


496 


APPENDIX 


The  owl  shall  whoop  in  the  white  man's  ear, 
That  Mogg  Megone,  with  his  scalps,  is  here !  " 
He  pauses,  —  dark,  over  cheek  and  brow, 
A  flush,  as  of  shame,  is  stealing  now : 
*4  Sachem  !  "  he  says,  "  let  me  have  the  land, 
Which  stretches  away  upon  either  hand, 
As  far  about  as  my  feet  can  stray 
In  the  half  of  a  gentle  summer's  day, 

From  the  leaping  brook  to  the  Saco  river,  — 
And  the  fair  -  haired  girl  thou  hast  sought  of 

me 
Shall  sit  in  the  Sachem's  wigwam,  and  be 

The  wife  of  Mogg  Megone  forever." 

There  's  a  sudden  light  in  the  Indian's  glance, 
A  moment's  trace  of  powerful  feeling, 

Of  love  or  triumph,  or  both  perchance, 
Over  his  proud,  calm  features  stealing. 

"  The  words  of  my  father  are  very  good  ; 

He  shall  have  the  land,  and  water,  and  wood ; 

And  he  who  harms  the  Sagamore  John, 

Shall  feel  the  knife  of  Mogg  Megone  ; 

But  the  fawn  of  the  Yengees  shall  sleep  on  my 
breast, 

And  the  bird  of  the  clearing  shall  sing  in  my 
nest." 

44  But,  father  !  "  —  and  the  Indian's  hand 

Falls  gently  on  the  white  man's  arm, 
And  with  a  smile  as  shrewdly  bland 

As  the  deep  voice  is  slow  and  calm,  — 
44  Where  is  my  father's  singing-bird,  — 

The  sunny  eye,  and  sunset  hair  ? 
I  know  I  have  my  father's  word 

And  that  his  word  is  good  and  fair  ; 

But  will  my  father  tell  me  where 
Megone  shall  go  and  look  for  his  bride  ?  — 
For  he  sees  her  not  by  her  father's  side." 

The  dark,  stern  eye  of  Boniton 

Flashes  over  the  features  of  Mogg  Megone, 
In  one  of  those  glances  which  search  within ; 

But  the  stolid  calm  of  the  Indian  alone 
Remains;  where  the  trace  of  emotion  has  been. 

41  Does  the  Sachem  doubt  ?     Let  him  go  with 
me, 

And  the  eyes  of  the  Sachem  his  bride  shall  see." 

Cautious  and  slow,  with  pauses  oft, 
And  watchful  eyes  and  whispers  soft, 
The  twain  are  stealing  through  the  wood, 
Leaving  the  downward-rushing  flood, 
Whose  deep  and  solemn  roar  behind 
Grows  fainter  on  the  evening  wind. 

Hark  !  —  is  that  the  angry  howl 
Of  the  wolf,  the  hills  among  ?  — 

Or  the  hooting  of  the  owl, 
On  his  leafy  cradle  swung  ?  — 

Quickly  glancing,  to  and  fro, 

Listening  to  each  sound  they  go 

Round  the  columns  of  th.^  pine, 
Indistinct,  in  shadow,  seeming 

Like  some  old  and  pillared  shrine ; 

With  the  soft  and  white  moonshine, 

Round  the  foliage-tracery  shed 

Of  each  column's  branching  head. 


For  its  lamps  of  worship  gleaming ! 
And  the  sounds  awakened  there, 

In  the  pine-leaves  fine  and  small, 

Soft  and  sweetly  musical, 
By  the  fingers  of  the  air, 
For  the  anthem's  dying  fall 
Lingering  round  some  temple's  wafl ! 
Niche  and  cornice  round  and  round 
Wailing  like  the  ghost  of  sound  ! 
Is  not  Nature's  worship  thus, 

Ceaseless  ever,  going  on  ? 
Hath  it  not  a  voice  for  us 

In  the  thunder,  or  the  tone 
Of  the  leaf-harp  faint  and  small, 

Speaking  to  the  unseal  d  ear 

Words  of  blended  love  and  fear. 
Of  the  mighty  Soul  of  all  ? 

Naught  had  the  twain  of  thoughts  like  these 
As  they  wound  along  through  the  crowded  trees 
Where  never  had  rung  the  axeman's  stroke 
On  the   gnarled  trunk  of  the  rough -barked 

oak  ;  — 

Climbing  the  dead  tree's  mossy  log, 
Breaking  the  mesli  of  the  bramble  fine, 
Turning  aside  the  wild  grapevine, 
And  lightly  crossing  the  quaking  bog 
Whose  surface  shakes  at  the  leap  of  the  frog, 
And  out  of  whose  pools  the  ghostly  fog 
Creeps  into  the  chill  moonshine  ! 

Yet,  even  that  Indian's  ear  had  heard 
The  preaching  of  the  Holy  Word : 
Sanchekantacket's  isle  of  sand 
Was  once  his  father's  hunting  land, 
Where  zealous  Hiacoomes  stood,  — 
The  wild  apostle  of  the  wood, 
Shook  from  his  soul  the  fear  of  harm, 
And  trampled  on  the  Powwaw's  charm  ; 
Until  the  wizard's  curses  hung 
Suspended  on  his  palsying  tongue, 
And  the  fierce  warrior,  grim  and  tall, 
Trembled  before  the  forest  Paul ! 

A  cottage  hidden  in  the  wood,  — 

Red  through  its  seams  a  light  is  glowing, 
On  rock  and  bongh  and  tree-trunk  rude, 

A  narrow  lustre  throwing. 
"  Who  's  there  ?  "  a  clear,  firm  voice  demands 

44  Hold,  Ruth,  —  't  is  I,  the  Sagamore  1 " 
Quick,  at  the  summons,  hasty  hands 

Unclose  the  bolted  door  ; 
And  on  the  outlaw's  daughter  shine 
The  flashes  of  the  kindled  pine. 

Tall  and  erect  the  maiden  stands, 

Like  some  young  priestess  of  the  wood. 
The  freeborn  child  of  Solitude, 
And  bearing  still  the  wild  and  rude, 
Yet  noble  trace  of  Nature's  hands. 
Her  dark  brown  cheek  has  caught  its  stain 
More  from  the  sunshine  than  the  rain  ; 
Yet,  where  her  long  fair  hair  is  parting, 
A  pure  white  brow  into  light  is  starting ; 
And,  where  the  folds  of  her  blanket  sever. 
Are  neck  and  a  bosom  as  white  as  ever 
The  foam-wreaths  rise  on  the  leaping:  river. 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


497 


But  in  the  convulsive  quiver  and  grip 
Of  the  muscles  around  her  bloodless  lip, 

Thert  is  something-  painful  and  sad  to  see  ; 
And  her  eye  has  a  glance  more  sternly  wild 
Than  even  that  of  a  foresf  child 

In  its  fearless  and  untam  :d  freedom  should 

be. 

Yet,  seldom  in  hall  or  court  are  seen 
So  queenly  a  form  and  so  noble  a  mien, 

As  freely  and  smiling  she  welcomes   them 

there,  — 
Her  outlawed  sire  and  Mogg  Megone  : 

"  Pray,  father,  how  does  thy  hunting  fare  ? 

And,  Sachem,  say,  —  does  Scamman  wear, 
In  spite  of  thy  promise,  a  scalp  of  his  own?  " 
Hurried  and  light  is  the  maiden's  tone  ; 

But  a  fearful  meaning  lurks  within 
Her  glance,  as    it  questions  the  eye    of    Me 
gone,  — 

An  awful  meaning  of  guilt  and  sin !  — 
The  Indian  hath  opened  his  blanket,  and  there 
Hangs  a  human  scalp  by  its  long  damp  hair  ! 
With  hand  upraised,  with  quick-drawn  breath, 
She  meets  that  ghastly  sign  of  death. 
In  one  long,  glassy,  spectral  stare 
The  enlarging  eye  is  fastened  there, 
As  if  that  mesh  of  pale  brown  hair 

Had  power  to  change  at  sight  alone, 
Even  as  the  fearful  locks  which  wound 
Medusa's  fatal  forehead  round, 

The  gazer  into  stone. 
With  such  a  look  Heroclias  read 
The  features  of  the  bleeding  head, 
So  looked  the  mad  Moor  on  his  dead, 
Or  the  young  Cenci  as  she  stood, 
O'er-dabbled  with  a  father's  blood  ! 

Look !  —  feeling  melts  that  frozen  glance, 
It  moves  that  marble  countenance, 
As  if  at  once  within  her  strove 
Pity  with  shame,  and  hate  with  love. 
The  Past  recalls  its  joy  and  pain, 
Old  memories  rise  before  her  brain,  — 
The  lips  which  love's  embraces  met, 
The  hand  her  tears  of  parting  wet, 
The  voice  whose  pleading  tones  beguiled 
The  pleased  ear  of  the  forest-child,  — 
And  tears  she  may  no  more  repress 
Reveal  her  lingering  tenderness. 

Oh,  woman  wronged  can  cherish  hate 

More  deep  and  dark  than  manhood  may  ; 
But  when  the  mockery  of  Fate 

Hath  left  Revenge  its  chosen  way, 
And  the  fell  curse,  which  years  have  nursed, 
Full  on  the  spoiler's  head  hath  burst,  — 
When  all  her  wrong,  and  shame,  and  pain, 
Burns  fiercely  on  his  heart  and  brain,  — 
Still  lingers  something  of  the  spell 

Which  bound  her  to  the  traitor's  bosom,  — 
Still,  midst  the  vengeful  fires  of  hell, 

Some  flowers  of  old  affection  blossom. 

John  Boniton's  eyebrows  together  are  drawn 
With  a  fierce  expression  of  wrath  and  scorn,  — 
He  hoarsely  whispers,  "  Ruth,  beware  ! 
Is  this  the  time  to  be  playing  the  fool,  — 


Crying  over  a  paltry  lock  of  hair, 

Like  a  love-sick  girl  at  school  ?  — 
Curse  on  it !  —  an  Indian  can  see  and  hear  . 
Away,  — and  prepare  our  evening  cheer  3  " 

How  keenly  the  Indian  is  watching  now 
Her  tearful  eye  and  her  varying  brow,  — 

With  a  serpent  eye,  which  kindles  and  burns, 
Like  a  fiery  star  in  the  upper  air  : 
On  sire  and  daughter  his  fierce  glance  turns  :  — 
"  Has  my  old  white  father  a  scalp  to  spare? 
For  his  young  one  loves  the  pale  brown  hair 
Of  the  scalp  of  an  English  dog  far  more 
Than  Mogg  Megone,  or  his  wigwam  floor  ; 
Go,  —  Mogg  is  wise  :  he  will  keep  his  land,  — 
And  Sagamore  John,  when  he  feels  with  his 

hand, 
Shall  miss  his  scalp  where  it  grew  before." 

The  moment's  gust  of  grief  is  gone,  — 

The  lip  is  clenched,  —  the  tears  are  still,  — 
God  pity  thee,  Ruth  Boniton  ! 
With  what  a  strength  of  will 
Are  nature's  feelings  in  thy  breast, 
As  with  an  iron  hand,  repressed  ! 
And  how,  upon  that  nameless  woe, 
Quick  as  the  pulse  can  come  and  go, 
While  shakes  the  unsteadfast  knee,  and  yet 
The  bosom  heaves,  —  the  eye  is  wet,  — 
Has  thy  dark  spirit  power  to  stay 
The  heart's  wild  current  on  its  way  ? 

And  whence  that  baleful  strength  of  guile. 
Which  over  that  still  working  brow 
And  tearful  eye  and  cheek  can  throw 

The  mockery  of  a  smile  ? 
Warned  by  her  father's  blackening  frown, 
With  one  strong  effort  crushing  down 
Grief,  hate,  remorse,  she  meets  again 
The  savage  murderer's  sullen  gaze, 
And  scarcely  look  or  tone  betrays 
How  the  heart  strives  beneath  its  chain. 

u  Is  the  Sachem  angry,  —  angry  with  Ruth, 
Because  she  cries  with  an  ache  in  her  tooth,  -~ 
Which  would  make  a  Sagamore  jump  and  cryT 
And  look  about  with  a  woman's  eye  ? 
No,  —  Ruth  will  sit  in  the  Sachem's  door 
And  braid  the  mats  for  his  wigwam  floor, 
And  broil  his  fish  and  tender  fawn, 
And  weave  his  wampum,  and  grind  his  corn.  - 
For  she  loves  the  brave  and  the  wise,  and  none 
Are  braver  and  wiser  than  Mogg  Megone  1  " 

The  Indian's  brow  is  clear  once  more  : 

With  grave,  calm  face,  and  half-shut  eye, 
He  sits  upon  the  wigwam  floor, 

And  watches  Ruth  go  by, 
Intent  upon  her  household  care  ; 

And  ever  and  anon,  the  while, 
Or  on  the  maiden,  or  her  fare, 
Which  smokes  in  grateful  promise  there, 

Bestows  his  quiet  smile. 


Ah,  Mogg  Megone  !  —  what  dreams  are  thine, 
But  those  which  lo/e's  own  fancies  dress,  - 
The  sum  of  Indian  happiness !  — 


408 


APPENDIX 


A  wigwam,  where  the  warm  sunshine 
Looks  in  among  the  groves  of  pine,  — 
A  stream,  where,  round  thy  light  canoe, 
The  trout  and  salmon  dart  in  view, 
And  the  fair  girl,  before  thee  now, 
Spreading  thy  mat  with  hand  of  snow, 
Or  plying,  in  the  dews  of  morn, 
Her  hoe  amidst  thy  patch  of  corn, 
Or  offering  up,  at  eve,  to  thee, 
Thy  birchen  dish  of  hominy  ! 

From  the  rude  board  of  Boniton, 

Venison  and  succotash  have  gone,  — 

For  long  these  dwellers  of  the  wood 

Have  felt  the  gnawing  want  of  food. 

But  untasted  of  Ruth  is  the  frugal  cheer,  — 

With  head  averted,  yet  ready  ear, 

She  stands  by  the  side  of  her  austere  sire, 

Feeding,  at  times,  the  unequal  fire 

With  the  yellow  knots  of  the  pitch-pine  tree, 

Whose  flaring  light,  as  they  kindle,  falls 

On  the  cottage-roof,  and  its  black  log  walls, 

And  over  its  inmates  three. 

From  Sagamore  Boniton's  hunting  flask 

The  fire-water  burns  at  the  lip  of  Megone  : 
*4  Will  the  Sachem  hear  what  his  father  shall 
ask? 

Will  he  make  his  mark,  that  it  may  be  known, 
On  the  speaking-leaf,  that  he  gives  the  land, 
From  the  Sachem's  own,  to  his  father's  hand?  " 
The  fire-water  shines  in  the  Indian's  eyes, 

As  he  rises,  the  white  man's  bidding  to  do : 
44  Wuttamuttata  —  weekan  !    Mogg  is  wise,  — 

For  the  water  he  drinks  is  strong  and  new,  — 
Mogg's  heart  is  great !  —  will  he  shut  his  hand, 
When  his  father  asks  for  a  little  land  ?  "  — 
With  unsteady  fingers,  the  Indian  has  drawn 

On  the  parchment   the  .shape  of  a  hunter's 

bow, 
41  Boon  water,  —  boon  water,  —  Sagamore  John  ! 

Wuttamuttata,  —  weekan  !    our   hearts   will 

grow  ! " 

He  drinks  yet  deeper,  —  he  mutters  low,  — 
He  reels  on  his  bear-skin  to  and  fro,  — 
His  head  falls  down  on  his  naked  breast,  — 
He  struggles,  and  sinks  to  a  drunken  rest. 

44  Humph — drunk  as  a  beast!" — and  Boni 
ton's  brow 

Is  darker  than  ever  with  evil  thought  — 
j4  The  fool  has  signed  his  warrant ;  but  how 

And  when  shall  the  deed  be  wrought  ? 
Speak,  Ruth  !  why,  what  the  devil  is  there, 
To  fix  thy  gaze  in  that  empty  air  ?  — 
Speak,  Ruth  !  by  my  soul,  if  I  thought  that  tear 
Which  shames  thyself  and  our  purpose  here, 
Were  shed  for  that  cursed  and  pale-faced  dog, 
Whose  green  scalp  hangs  from  the  belt  of  Mogg, 

And  whose  beastly  soul  is  in  Satan's  keeping  ; 
This  —  this  !  "  —  he  dashes  his  hand  upon 
The  rattling  stock  of  his  loaded  gun,  — 

"Should  send  thee  with  him  to  do  thy  weep 
ing!  " 

44  Father  !  "  —  the  eye  of  Boniton 
Sinks  at  that  low,  sepulchral  tone, 


Hollow  and  deep,  as  it  were  spoken 
By  the  iimnoving  tongue  of  death,  — 

Or  from  some  statue's  lips  had  broken, 
A  sound  without  a  breath  ! 

44  Father  !  —  my  life  1  value  less 

Than  yonder  fool  his  gaudy  dress  ; 

And  how  it  ends  it  matters  not, 

By  heart-break  or  by  rifle-shot ; 

But  spare  awhile  the  scoff  and  threat,— 

Our  business  is  not  finished  yet." 

"  True,  true,  my  girl,  —  I  only  meant 

To  draw  up  again  the  bow  unbent. 

Harm  thee,  my  Ruth  !  I  only  sought 

To  frighten  off  thy  gloomy  thought  ; 

Come,  —  let 's  be  friends  !  "     He  seeks  to  clasp 

His  daughter's  cold,  damp  hand  in  his. 

Ruth  startles  from  he:  fathers  grasp, 

As  if  each  nerve  and  muscle  felt, 

Instinctively,  the  touch  of  guilt 

Through  all  their  subtle  sympathies. 

He  points  her  to  the  sleeping  Mogg : 
44  What  shall  be  done  with  yonder  dog  ? 
Scamman  is  dead,  and  revenge  is  thine,  — 
The  deed  is  signed  and  the  land  is  mine  ; 
And  this  drunken  fool  is  of  use  no  more, 
Save  as  thy  hopeful  bridegroom,  and  sooth, 
'T  were  Christian  mercy  to  finish  him,  Ruth, 
Now,  while  he  lies  like  a  beast  on  our  floor,  — 
If  not  for  thine,  at  least  for  his  sake, 
Rather  than  let  the  poor  dog  awake 
To  drain  my  flask,  and  claim  as  his  bride 
Such  a  forest  devil  to  run  by  his  side,  — 
Such  a  Wetuomanit  as  thou  wou'dst  make !  " 

He  laughs  at  his  jest.     Hush  —  what  is  there  ? — 
The  sleeping  Indian  is  striving  to  rise, 
With  his  knife  in  his  hand,  and  glaring  eyes  !— 

4'  Wagh  !  —  Mogg  will  have  the  pale-face's  hair, 
For  his  knife  is  sharp,  and  his  fingers  can  help 

The  hair  to  pull  and  the  skin  to  peel,  — 

Let  him  cry  like  a  woman  and  twist  like  an  eel, 
The   great  Captain  Scamman  must   lose   his 
scalp  ! 

And  Ruth,  when  she  sees  it,  shall  dance  with 
Mogg." 

His  eyes  are  fixed,  —  but  his  lips  draw  in,  — 

With  a  low,  hoarse  chuckle,  and  fiendish  grin,— 
And  ne  sinks  again,  like  a  senseless  log. 

Ruth  does  not  speak,  —  she  does  not  stir ; 
But  she  gazes  down  on  the  murderer, 
Whose  broken  and  dreamful  slumbers  tell 
Too  much  for  her  ear  of  that  deed  of  hell. 
She  sees  the  knife,  with  its  slaughter  red, 
And  the  dark  fingers  clenching  the  bearskia 

bed  ! 

What  thoughts  of  horror  and  madness  whirl 
Through  the  burning  brain  of  that  fallen  girl  I 

John  Boniton  lifts  his  gun  to  his  eye, 

Its  muzzle  is  close  to  the  Indian's  ear,  — 
But  he  drops  it  again.       "Some  one  may  be 

nigh, 

And  I  would  not  that  even  the  wolves  should 
hear." 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


199 


He  draws  his  knife  from  his  deer-skin  belt,  — 
Its  edge  with  his  fingers  is  slowly  felt ;  — 
Kneeling   down  on  one  knee,  by  the  Indian's 

side, 

From  his  throat  he  opens  the  blanket  wide  ; 
And  twice  or  thrice  he  feebly  essays 
A  trembling  hand  with  the  knife  to  raise. 

44 1  cannot,"  —  he  mutters,  —  "  did  he  not  save 
My  life  from  a  cold  and  wintry  grave. 
When  the  storm  came  down  from  Agiochook, 
And  the  north-wind  howled,  and  the  tree-tops 

shook.  — 

A.nd  I  strove,  in  the  drifts  of  the  rushing  snow, 
Till  my  knees  grew  weak  and  I  could  not  go, 
And  I  felt  the  cold  to  my  vitals  creep, 
And  my  heart's  blood  stiffen,  and  pulses  sleep  ! 
I  cannot  strike  him  —  Ruth  Boniton  ! 
In  the  Devil's  name,  tell  me  —  what 's  to  be 

done  ?  " 

Oh,  when  the  soul,  once  pure  and  high, 
Is  stricken  down  from  Virtue's  sky, 
As,  with  the  downcast  star  of  morn, 
Some  gems  of  light  are  with  it  drawn, 
And,  through  its  night  of  darkness,  play 
Some  tokens  of  its  primal  day, 
Some  lofty  feelings  linger  still,  — 

The  strength  to  dare,  the  nerve  to  meet 

Whatever  threatens  with  defeat 
Its  all-indomitable  will  !  — 
But  lacks  the  mean  of  mind  and  heart, 
Though  eager  for  the  gains  of  crime, 
Or,  at  his  chosen  place  and  time, 
The  strength  to  bear  his  evil  part ; 
And,  shielded  by  his  very  Vice, 
Escapes  from  Crime  by  Cowardice. 

Ruth  starts  erect,  —  with  bloodshot  eye, 

And  lips  drawn  tight  across  her  teeth 
Showing  their  locked  embrace  beneath, 
In  the  red  firelight :  ''  Mogg  must  die  ! 
Give  me  the  knife  !  "  The  outlaw  turns, 

Shuddering  in  heart  and  limb  away, 
But,  fitfully  there,  the  hearth-fire  burns, 

And  he  sees  on  the  wall  strange  shadows 

play. 

A  lifted  arm,  a  tremulous  blade, 
Are  dimly  pictured  in  light  and  shade, 

Plunging  down  in  the  darkness.     Hark,  that 

cry 

Again  —  and  again  —  he  sees  it  fall, 
That  shadowy  arm  down  the  lighted  wall ! 

He  hears  quick  footsteps  —  a  shape  flits  by  — 
The  door  on  its  rusted  hinges  creaks  :  — 
14  Ruth  —  daughtei  Ruth  !  "  the  outlaw  shrieks. 
But  no  sound   comes    back,  —  he  is    standing 

alone 
By  the  mangled  corse  of  Mogg  Megone  ! 


PART    II 

'T  IS  morning  over  Norridgewock,  — 
On  tree  and  wigwam,  wave  and  rock, 
Bathed  in  the  autumnal  sunshine,  stirred 
At  intervals  by  breeze  and  bird, 


And  wearing  all  the  hues  which  glow 
In  heaven's  own  pure  and  perfect  bow, 

That  glorious  picture  of  the  air, 
Which  summer's  light-robed  angel  forms 
On  the  dark  ground  of  fading  storms, 

With  pencil  dipped  in  sunbeams  there,  — « 
And,  stretching  out,  on  either  hand, 
O'er  all  that  wide  and  unshorn  land, 
Till,  weary  of  its  gorgeousness, 
The  aching  and  the  dazzled  eye 
Rests,  gladdened,  on  the  calm  blue  sky,  — 

Slumbers  the  mighty  wilderness ! 
The  oak,  upon  the  windy  hill, 

Its  dark  green  burthen  upward  heaves  — • 
The  hemlock  broods  above  its  rill, 
Its  cone-like  foliage  darker  still, 

Against  the  birch's  graceful  stem, 
And  the  rough  walnut-bough  receives 
The  sun  upon  its  crowded  leaves, 

Each  colored  like  a  topaz  gem  ; 

And  the  tall  maple  wears  with  them 
The  coronal,  which  autumn  gives, 

Th?  brief,  bright  sign  of  ruin  near, 

The  hectic  of  a  dying  year ! 

The  hermit  priest,  who  lingers  now 

On  the  Bald  Mountain's  shrubless  brow, 

The  gray  and  thunder-smitten  pile 

Which  marks  afar  the  Desert  Isle, 
While  gazing  on  the  scene  below, 
May  half  forget  the  dreams  of  home, 
That  nightly  with  his  slumbers  come,  — 
The  tranquil  skies  of  sunny  France, 
The  peasant's  harvest  song  and  dance, 
Tha  vines  around  the  hillsides  wreathing, 
The  soft  airs  midst  their  clusters  breathing, 
The  wings  which  dipped,  the  stars  which  shone 
Within  thy  bosom,  blue  Garonne  3 
And  round  the  Abbey's  shadowed  wall, 
At  morning  spring  and  even-fall, 

Sweet  voices  in  the  still  air  singing,  — 
The  chant  of  many  a  holy  hymn,  — 

The  solemn  bell  of  vespers  ringing,  — 
And  hallowed  torchlight  falling  dim 
On  pictured  saint  and  seraphim  ! 
For  here  beneath  him  lies  unrolled, 
Bathed  deep  in  morning's  flood  of  gold, 
A  vision  gorgeous  as  the  dream 
Of  the  beatified  may  seem, 

When,  as  his  Church's  legends  say, 
Born  upward  in  ecstatic  bliss, 

The  rapt  enthusiast  soars  away 
Unto  a  brighter  world  than  this  : 
A  mortal's  glimpse  beyond  the  pale,  — 
A  moment's  lifting  of  the  veil ! 

Far  eastward  o'er  the  lovely  bay, 
Penobscot's  clustered  wigwams  lay  ; 
And  gently  from  that  Indian  town 
The  verdant  hillside  slopes  adown, 
To  where  the  sparkling  waters  play 

Upon  the  yellow  sands  below ; 
And  shooting  round  the  winding  shore* 

Of  narrow  capes,  and  isles  which  lie 

Slumbering  to  ocean's  lullaby,  — 
With  birchen  boat  and  glancing  oars, 
The  red  men  to  their  fishing  go ; 


500 


APPENDIX 


While  from  their  planting1  ground  is  borne 

The  treasure  of  the  golden  corn, 

By  laughing  girls,  whose  dark  eyes  glow 

Wild  through  the  locks  which  o'er  them  flow. 

The  wrinkled  squaw,  whose  toil  is  done, 

Sits  on  her  bear-skin  in  the  sun, 

Watching  the  buskers,  with  a  smile 

For  each  full  ear  which  swells  the  pile ; 

And  the  old  chief,  who  nevermore 

May  bend  the  bow  or  pull  the  oar, 

Smokes  gravely  in  his  wigwam  door, 

Or  slowly  shapes,  with  axe  of  stone, 

The  arrow-head  from  flint  and  bone. 

Beneath  the  westward  turning  eye 
A  thousand  wooded  islands  lie, 
Gems  of  the  waters  !  with  each  hue 
Of  brightness  set  in  ocean's  blue. 
Each  bears  aloft  its  tuft  of  trees 

Touched  by  the  pencil  of  the  frost, 
And,  with  the  motion  of  each  breeze, 

A  moment  seen,  a  moment  lost, 

Changing  and  blent,  confused  and  tossed, 

The  brighter  with  the  darker  crossed, 
Their  thousand  tints  of  beauty  glow 
Down  in  the  restless  waves  below, 

And  tremble  in  the  sunny  skies, 
As  if,  from  waving  bough  to  bough, 

Flitted  the  birds  of  paradise. 
There  sleep  Placentia's  group,  and  there 
Pere  Breteaux  marks  the  hour  of  prayer  ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  sea-worn  cliff, 

On  which  the  Father's  hut  is  seen, 
The  Indian  stays  his  rocking  skiff, 

And  peers  the  hemlock-boughs  between, 
Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look 
Upon  the  Jesuit's  Cross  and  Book. 
There,  gloomily  against  the  sky 
The  Dark  Isles  rear  their  summits  high ; 
And  Desert  Rock,  abrupt  and  bare, 
Lifts  its  gray  turrets  in  the  air, 
Seen  from  afar,  like  some  stronghold 
Built  by  the  ocean  kings  of  old  ; 
And,  faint  as  smoke-wreath  white  and  thin, 
Swells  in  the  north  vast  Katahdin  : 
And,  wandering  from  its  marshy  feet, 
The  broad  Penobscot  comes  to  meet 

And  mingle  with  his  own  bright  bay. 
Slow  sweep  his  dark  and  gathering  floods, 
Arched  over  by  the  ancient  woods, 
Which  Time,  in  those  dim  solitudes, 

Wielding  the  dull  axe  of  Decay, 

Alone  hath  ever  shorn  away. 

Not  thus,  within  the  woods  which  hide 
The  beauty  of  thy  azure  tide, 

And  with  their  falling  timbers  block 
Thy  broken  currents,  Kennebec  ! 
Gazes  the  white  man  on  the  wreck 

Of  the  down-trodden  Norridgewock  ; 
In  one  lone  village  hemmed  at  length, 
In  battle  shorn  of  half  their  strength, 
Turned,  like  the  panther  in  his  lair, 

With  his  fast-flowing  life-blood  wet, 
For  one  last  struggle  of  despair, 

Wounded  and  faint,  but  tameless  yet  I 
fJoreaped,  upon  the  planting  lands, 


The  scant,  neglected  harvest  stands : 

No  shout  is  there,  no  dance,  no  song: 
The  aspect  of  the  very  child 
Scowls  with  a  meaning  sad  and  wild 

Of  bitterness  and  wrong. 
The  almost  infant  Norridgewock 
Essays  to  lift  the  tomahawk  ; 
And  plucks  his  father's  knife  away, 
To  mimic,  in  his  frightful  play, 

The  scalping  of  an  English  foe  : 
Wreathes  on  his  lip  a  horrid  smile, 
Burns,  like  a  snake's,  his  small  eye,  while 

Some  bough  or  sapling  meets  his  blow. 
The  fisher,  as  he  drops  his  line, 
Starts,  when  he  sees  the  hazels  quiver 
Along  the  margin  of  the  river, 
Looks  up  and  down  the  rippling  tide, 
And  grasps  the  firelock  at  his  side. 
For  Bomazeen  from  Tacconock 
Has  sent  his  runners  to  Norridgewock, 
With    tidings   that    Moulton   and   Harmon  o| 
York 

Far  up  the  river  have  come : 
They  have  left  their  boats,  they  have  entered 

the  wood, 
And  filled  the  depths  of  the  solitude 

With  the  sound  of  the  ranger's  drum. 

On  the  brow  of  a  hill,  which  slopes  to  meet 
The  flowing  river,  and  bathe  its  feet  ; 
The  bare-washed  rock,  and  the  drooping  grass, 
And  the  creeping  vine,  as  the  waters  pass, 
A  rude  and  unshapely  chapel  stands, 
Built  up  in  that  wild  by  unskilled  hands, 
Yet  the  traveller  knows  it  a  place  of  prayer, 
For  the  holy  sign  of  the  cross  is  there  : 
And  should  he  chance  at  that  place  to  be, 

Of  a  Sabbath  morn,  or  some  hallowed  day, 
When  prayers  are  made  and  masses  are  said, 
Some  for  the  living  and  some  for  the  dead, 
Well  might  that  traveller  start  to  see 

The  tall  dark  forms,  that  take  their  way 
From  the  birch  canoe,  011  the  river  shore, 
And  the  forest  paths,  to  that  chapel  door  ; 
And  marvel  to  mark  the  naked  knees 

And  the  dusky  foreheads  bending  there, 
While,  in  coarse  white  vesture,  over  these 

In  blessing  or  in  prayer, 
Stretching  abroad  his  thin  pale  hands, 
Like  a  shrouded  ghost,  the  Jesuit  stands. 

Two  forms  are  now  in  that  chapel  dim, 
The  Jesuit,  silent  and  sad  and  pale, 
Anxiously  heeding  some  fearful  tale, 

Which  a  stranger  is  telling  him. 

That  stranger's  garb  is  soiled  and  torn, 

And  wet  with  dew  and  loosely  worn ; 

Her  fair  neglected  hair  falls  down 

O'er  cheeks  with  wind  and  sunshine  brownj 

Yet  still,  in  that  disordered  face, 

The  Jesuit's  cautious  eye  can  trace 

Those  elements  of  former  grace 

Which,  half  effaced,  seem  scarcely  less, 

Even  now,  than  perfect  loveliness. 

With  drooping  head,  and  voice  so  low 
That  scarce  it  meets  the  Jesuit's  ears. 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


While  through  her  clasped  fingers  flow, 
From  the  heart's  fountain,  hot  and  slow, 

Her  penitential  tears,  — 
She  tells  the  story  of  the  woe 

And  evil  of  her  years. 

''  0  father,  bear  with  me  ;  my  heart 
Is  sick  and  death-like,  and  my  brain 
Seems  girdled  with  a  fiery  chain, 

Whose  scorching  links  will  never  part, 
And  never  cool  again. 

Bear  with  me  while  I  speak,  but  turn 
Away  that  gentle  eye,  the  while  ; 

The  fires  of  guilt  moi-3  fiercely  burn 
Beneath  its  holy  smile  ; 

For  half  I  fancy  I  can  see 

My  mother's  sainted  look  in  thee. 

"  My  dear  lost  mother !  sad  and  pale, 
Mournfully  sinking  day  by  day, 

And  with  a  hold  on  life  as  frail 
As  frosted  leaves,  that,  thin  and  gray, 
Hang  feebly  on  their  parent  spray, 

And  tremble  in  the  gale  ; 

Yet  watching  o'er  my  childishness 

With  patient  fondness,  not  the  less 

For  all  the  agony  which  kept 

Her  blue  eye  wakeful,  while  I  slept ; 

And  checking  every  tear  and  groan 

That  haply  might  have  waked  my  own, 

And  bearing  still,  without  offence, 

My  idle  words,  and  petulance  ; 
Reproving  with  a  tear,  and,  while 

The  tooth  of  pain  was  keenly  preying 

Upon  her  very  heart,  repaying 
My  brief  repentance  with  a  smile. 

"Oh,  in  her  meek,  forgiving  eye 

There  was  a  brightness  not  of  mirth, 
A  light  whose  clear  intensity 

Was  borrowed  not  of  earth. 
Along  her  cheek  a  deepening  red 
Told  where  the  feverish  hectic  fed ; 

And  yet,  each  fatal  token  gave 
To  the  mild  beauty  of  her  face 
A  newer  and  a  dearer  grace, 

Unwarning  of  the  grave. 
'T  was  like  the  hue  which  Autumn  gives 
To  yonder  changed  and  dying  leaves, 

Breathed  over  by  his  frosty  breath  ; 
Scarce  can  the  gazer  feel  that  this 
Is  but  the  spoiler's  treacherous  kiss, 

The  mocking-smile  of  Death  ! 

"Sweet  were  the  tales  she  used  to  tell 

When  summer's  eve  was  dear  to  us, 
And,  fading  from  the  darkening  dell, 
The  glory  of  the  sunset  fell 

On  wooded  Agameiiticus,  — 
When,  sitting  by  our  cottage  wall, 
The  murmur  of  the  Saco's  fall, 

And  the  south-wind's  expiring  sighs, 
Came,  softly  blending,  on  my  ear 
With  the  low  tones  I  loved  to  hear : 

Tales  of  the  pure,  the  good,  the  wise, 
The  holy  men  and  maids  of  old, 
In  the  all-sacred  pages  told ; 


Of  Rachel,  stooped  at  Haran's  fountains. 
Amid  her  father's  thirsty  flock, 
Beautiful  to  her  kinsman  seenJng 
As  the  bright  angels  of  his  dreaming, 

On  Padan-aran's  holy  rock  ; 
Of  gentle  Ruth,  and  her  who  kept 

Her  awful  vigil  on  the  mountains, 
By  Israel's  virgin  daughters  wept ; 
Of  Miriam,  with  her  maidens,  singing 

The  song  for  grateful  Israel  meet, 
While  every  crimson  wave  was  bringing 

The  spoils  of  Egypt  at  her  feet ; 
Of  her,  iSamaria's  humble  daughter, 

Who  paused  to  hear,  beside  her  well, 

Lessons  of  love  and  truth,  which  fell 
Softly  as  Shiloh's  flowing  water  ; 

And  saw,  beneath  his  pilgrim  guise, 
The  Promised  One,  so  long  foretold 
By  holy  seer  and  bard  of  old, 

Revealed  before  her  wondering  eyes  I 

"  Slowly  she  faded.     Day  by  day 
Her  step  grew  weaker  in  our  hall, 
And  fainter,  at  each  even-fall, 

Her  sad  voice  died  away. 
Yet  on  her  thin,  pale  lip,  the  while, 
Sat  Resignation's  holy  smile  : 
And  even  my  father  checked  his  tread, 
And  hushed  his  voice,  beside  her  bed : 
Beneath  the  calm  and  sad  rebuke 
Of  her  meek  eye's  imploring  look, 
The  scowl  of  hate  his  brow  forsook, 

And  in  his  stern  and  gloomy  eye, 
At  times,  a  few  unwonted  tears 
Wet  the  dark  lashes,  which  for  years 

Hatred  and  pride  had  kept  so  dry. 

"  Calm  as  a  child  to  slumber  soothed, 
As  if  an  angel's  hand  had  smoothed 

The  still,  white  features  into  rest, 
Silent  and  cold,  without  a  breath 

To  stir  the  drapery  on  her  breast, 
Pain,  with  its  keen  and  poisoned  fang, 
The  horror  of  the  mortal  pang, 
The  suffering  look  her  brow  had  worn, 
The  fear,  the  strife,  tl-e  anguish  gone,  - 

She  slept  at  last  in  death  I 

"  Oh,  tell  me,  father,  can  the  dead 
Walk  on  the  earth,  and  look  on  us, 

And  lay  upon  the  living's  head 
Their  blessing  or  their  curse  ? 

For,  oh,  last  night  she  stood  by  me, 

As  I  lay  beneath  the  woodland  tree  !  M 

The  Jesuit  crosses  himself  in  awe,  — 

"  Jesu  !  what  was  it  my  daughter  saw  ?  * 

"  She  came  to  me  last  night. 

The  dried  leaves  did  not  feel  her  tread  { 
She  stood  by  me  in  the  wan  moonlight, 

In  the  white  robes  of  the  dead  ! 
Pale,  and  very  mournfully 
She  bent  her  light  form  over  me. 
I  heard  no  sound,  I  felt  no  breath 
Breathe  o'er  me  from  that  face  of  death  I 
Its  blue  eyes  rested  on  my  own, 


APPENDIX 


Rayless  and  cold  as  eyes  of  stone  ; 

Yet,  in  their  fixed,  unchanging  gaze, 

Something,  which  spoke  of  early  days,  — 

A  sadness  in  their  quiet  glare, 

As  if  love's  smile  were  frozen  there,  — 

Came  e'er  me  with  an  icy  thrill ; 

0  God  !     I  feel  its  presence  stiU  !  " 

The  Jesuit  makes  the  holy  sign,  — 

"  How  passed  the  vision,  daughter  mine  ?  " 

14  All  dimly  in  the  wan  moonshine, 
As  a  wreath  of  mist  will  twist  and  twine, 
And  scatter,  and  melt  into  the  light ; 
So  scattering,  melting  on  my  sight, 

The  pale,  cold  vision  passed  ; 
But  those  sad  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine 

Mournfully  to  the  last." 

14  God  help  thee,  daughter,  tell  me  why 
That  spirit  passed  before  thine  eye  !  " 

*'  Father,  I  know  not,  save  it  be 
That  deeds  of  mine  have  summoned  her 
From  the  unbreathing  sepulchre, 

To  leave  her  last  rebuke  with  me. 

Ah,  woe  for  me  !  my  mother  died 

Just  at  the  moment  when  I  stood 

Close  on  the  verge  of  womanhood, 

A  child  in  everything  beside  ; 

And  when  my  wild  heart  needed  most 

Her  gentle  counsels,  they  were  lost. 

i4  My  father  lived  a  stormy  life, 
Of  frequent  change  and  daily  strife  ; 
And  —  God  forgive  him  !  left  his  child 
To  feel,  like  him,  a  freedom  wild  ; 
To  love  the  red  man's  dwelling-place, 

The  birch  boat  on  his  shaded  Hoods, 
The  wild  excitement  of  the  chase 

Sweeping  the  ancient  woods, 
The  camp-fire,  blazing  on  the  shore 

Of  the  still  lakes,  the  clear  stream  where 

The  idle  fisher  sets  his  weir, 
Or  angles  in  the  shade,  far  more 

Than  that  restraining  awe  I  felt 
Beneath  my  gentle  mother's  oare, 

When  nightly  at  her  knee  I  knelt, 
With  childhood's  simple  prayer. 

M  Ther*  came  a  change.     The  wild,  glad  mood 

Of  unchecked  freedom  passed. 
Amid  the  ancient  solitude 
Of  unshorn  grass  and  waving  wood 

And  waters  glancing  bright  and  fast, 
A  softened  voice  was  in  my  ear, 
Bweet  as  those  lulling  sounds  and  fine 
The  hvnter  lifts  his  head  to  hear, 
Now  far  and  faint,  now  full  and  near  — 

The  murmur  of  the  wind-swept  pine. 
A  m^nly  form  was  ever  nigh, 
A  bold,  free  hunter,  with  an  eye 

Whose  dark,  keen  glance  had  power  to  wake 
Both  fear  and  love,  to  awe  and  charm  ; 

'T  was  as  the  wizard  rattlesnake, 
Whose  evil  glances  lure  to  harm  — 
'Vhose  cold  and  small  and  glittering  eye, 


And  brilliant  coil,  and  chanaritig  dye, 
Draw,  step  by  step,  the  gazer  m-ar, 
With  drooping  wing  and  cry  of  fear, 
Yet  powerless  all  to  turn  away, 
A  conscious,  but  a  willing  prey  ! 

"  Fear,  doubt,  thought,  life  itself,  erelong 
Merged  in  one  feeling  deep  and  strong, 
Faded  the  world  which  I  had  known, 

A  poor  vain  shadow,  cold  and  waste  ; 
In  the  warm  present  bliss  alone 

Seemed  I  of  actual  life  to  taste. 
Fond  longings  dimly  understood. 
The  glow  of  passion's  quickening  blood, 
And  cherished  fantasies  which  press 
The  young  lip  with  a  dream's  caress  ; 
The  heart's  forecast  and  prophecy 
Took  form  and  life  before  my  eye, 
Seen  in  the  glance  which  met  my  own, 
Heard  in  the  soft  and  pleading  tone, 
Felt  in  the  arms  around  me  cast, 
And  warm  heart-pulses  beating  fast. 
Ah  !  scarcely  yet  to  God  above 
With  deeper  trust,  with  stronger  love, 
Has  prayerful  saint  his  meek  heart  lent, 
Or  cloistered  nun  at  twilight  bent, 
Than  I,  before  a  human  shrine, 
As  mortal  and  as  frail  as  mine, 
With  heart,  and  soul,  and  mind,  and  form. 
Knelt  madly  to  a  fellow-worm. 

"  Full  soon,  upon  that  dream  of  sin, 
An  awful  light  came  bursting  in. 
The  shrine  was  cold  at  which  I  knelt, 

The  idol  of  that  shrine  was  gone  ; 
A  humbled  thing  of  shame  and  guilt, 

Outcast,  and  spurned  and  lone, 
Wrapt  in  the  shadows  of  my  crime, 

With  withering  heart  and  burning  brain, 

And  tears  that  fell  like  fiery  rain, 
I  passed  a  fearful  time. 

"  There  came  a  voice  —  it  checked  the  tear 

In  heart  and  soul  it  wrought  a  change  ; 
My  father's  voice  was  in  my  ears  ; 

It  whispered  of  revenge  ! 
A  new  and  fiercer  feeling  swept 

All  lingering  tenderness  away  ; 
And  tiger  passions,  which  had  slept 

In  childhood's  better  day, 
Unknown,  unfelt,  arose  at  length 
In  all  their  own  demoniac  strength. 

"  A  youthful  wrarrior  of  the  wild, 
By  words  deceived,  by  smiles  beguiled, 
Of  crime  the  cheated  instrument, 
Upon  our  fatal  errands  went. 

Through  camp  and  town  and  wilderness 
He  tracked  his  victim  ;  and  at  last, 
Just  when  the  tide  of  hate  had  passed, 
And  milder  thoughts  came  warm  and  fast, 
Exulting,  at  my  feet  he  cast 

The  bloody  token  of  success. 

"  O  God  !  with  what  an  awful  power 

I  saw  the  buried  past  uprise, 
And  gather,  in  a  single  hour* 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


S<>3 


Its  ghosf  like  memories  ! 
And  then  I  felt,  alas  !   too  late, 

That  underneath  the  mask  of  hate, 
That  shame  and  guilt  and  wrong  had  thrown 
O'er  feelings  which  they  might  not  own, 

The  heart's  wild  love  had  known  no  change ; 
And  still  that  deep  and  hidden  love, 
With  its  first  fondness,  wept  above 

The  victim  of  its  own  revenge  ! 
There  lay  the  fearful  scalp,  and  there 
The  blood  was  on  its  pale  brown  hair  ! 
I  thought  not  of  the  victim's  scorn, 

I  thought  not  of  his  baleful  guile, 
My  deadly  wrong,  my  outcast  name, 
The  characters  of  sin  and  shame 
On  heart  and  forehead  drawn  ; 

I  only  saw  that  victim's  smile, 
The  still  green  places  where  we  met,  — 
The  moonlit  branches,  dewy  wet ; 
I  only  felt,  I  only  heard, 
The  greeting  and  the  parting  word,  — 
The  smile,  the  embrace,  the  tone,  which  made 

An  Eden  of  the  forest  shade. 

"  And  oh,  with  what  a  loathing  eye, 

With  what  a  deadly  hate,  and  deep, 
I  saw  that  Indian  murderer  lie 

Before  me,  in  his  drunken  sleep  ! 
What  though  for  me  the  deed  was  done, 
And  words  of  mine  had  sped  him  on  ! 
Yet  when  he  murmured,  as  he  slept. 

The  horrors  of  that  deed  of  blood, 
The  tide  of  utter  madness  swept 

O'er  brain  and  bosom,  like  a  flood, 
And,  father,  with  this  hand  of  mine  "  — 

"  Ha  !  what  didst  tliou  ?  "  the  Jesuit  cries, 
Shuddering,  as  smitten  with  sudden  pain, 

And  shading,  with  one  thin  hand,  his  eyes, 
With  the  other  he  makes  the  holy  sign. 
''  —  I  smote  him  as  I  would  a  worm  ; 
With  heart  as  steeled,  with  nerves  as  firm : 

He  never  woke  again  !  " 

"  Woman  of  sin  and  blood  and  shame, 
Speak,  I  would  know  that  victim's  name." 

"Father,"  she  gasped,  "a  chieftain,  known 
As  Saco's  Sachem,  —  Mogg  Megone  !  " 

Pale  priest !     What  proud  and  lofty  dreams, 
What  keen  desires,  what  cherished  schemes, 
What  hopes,  that  time  may  not  recall, 
Are  darkened  by  that  chieftain's  fall ! 
Was  he  not  pledged,  by  cross  and  vow, 

To  lift  the  hatchut  of  his  sire, 
And,  round  his  own,  the  Church's  foe, 

To  light  the  avenging  fire  ? 
Who  now  the  Tarrantine  shall  wake, 
For  thine  and  for  the  Church's  sake  ? 

Who  summon  to  the  scene 
Of  conquest  and  unsparing  strife, 
And  vengeance  dearer  than  his  life, 

The  fiery-souled  Castine  ? 
Three  backward  steps  the  Jesuit  takes, 
i-iis  long,  thin  frame  as  ague  shakes; 

And  loathing  hate  is  m  his  eye, 
A»  from  his  lips  these  words  of  fear 


Fall  hoarsely  on  the  maiden's  ear,  — 

"  The  soul  that  sinneth  shall  surely  die  1 w 

She  stands,  as  stands  the  stricken  deer, 
Checked  midway  in  the  tearful  chase, 

When  bursts,  upon  his  eye  and  ear, 

Tiie  gaunt,  gray  robber,  baying  near, 
Bet\veen  him  and  his  hiding-place  ; 

While  still  behind,  with  yell  and  blow. 

Sweeps,  like  a  storm,  the  coming  foe. 

"Save  me,  0  holy  man  !  "  her  cry 
Fills  all  the  void,  as  if  a  tongue 
Unseen,  from  rib  and  rafter  hung1, 

Thrilling  with  mortal  agony  ; 

Her  hands  are  clasping  the  Jesuit's  knee, 
And  her  eye  looks  fearfully  into  his  own ;  - 

"  Off,  woman  of  sin  !  nay,  touch  not  me 
With  the  fingers  of  blood  ;  begone  !  " 

With  a  gesture  of  horror,  he  spurns  the  form 

That  writhes  at  his  feet  like  a  trodden  worm 

Ever  thus  the  spirit  must. 

Guilty  in  the  sight  of  Heaven, 
With  a  keener  woe  be  riven, 

For  its  weak  and  sinful  trust 

In  the  strength  of  human  dust ; 
And  its  anguish  thrill  afresh, 

For  each  vain  reliance  given 
To  the  failing  arm  of  flesh. 


PART  ill 

AH,  weary  Priest !  with  pale  hands  pressed 

On  thy  throbbing  brow  of  pain, 
Baffled  in  thy  life-long  quest, 

Overworn  with  toiling  vain, 
How  ill  thy  troubled  musings  fit 

The  holy  quiet  of  a  breast 

With  the  Dove  of  Peace  at  rest, 
Sweetly  brooding  over  it. 
Thoughts  are  thine  which  hare  no  part 
With  the  meek  and  pure  of  heart, 
Undisturbed  by  outward  things, 
Resting  in  the  heavenly  shade, 
By  the  overspreading  wings 

Of  the  Blessed  Spirit  made. 
Thoughts  of  strife  and  hate  and  wrong 
Sweep  thy  heated  brain  along, 
Fading  hopes  fo^  whose  success 

It  were  sin  to  breathe  a  prayer  ;  — 
Schemes  which  Heaven  may  never  bless,' 

Fears  which  darken  to  despair. 
Hoary  priest !  thy  dream  is  done 
Of  a  hundred  red  tribes  won 

To  the  pale  of  Holy  Church  ; 
And  the  heretic  o'erthrown, 
And  his  name  no  longer  known, 
And  thy  weary  brethren  turning, 
Joyful  from  their  years  of  mourning 
'Twixt  the  altar  and  the  porch. 
Hark  I  what  sudden  sound  is  heard 

In  the  wood  and  in  the  sky, 
Shriller  than  the  scream  of  bird, 

Than  the  trumpet's  clang  more  high  I 
Every  wolf-cave  of  the  hills, 

Forest  arch  and  mountain  gorge 


5°4 


APPENDIX 


Bock  and  dell,  and  river  verge, 
With  an  answering  echo  thrills. 
Well  does  the  Jesuit  know  that  cry, 
Which  summons  the  Norridgewock  to  die, 
And  tells  that  the  foe  of  his  flock  is  nigh. 
He  listens,  and  hears  the  rangers  come, 
With  loud  hurrah,  and  jar  of  drum, 
And  hurrying  feet  (for  the  chase  is  hot), 
And  the  short,  sharp  sound  of  rifle  shot, 
And  taunt  and  menace,  —  answered  well 
By  the  Indians'  mocking  cry  and  yell,  — 
The  bark  of  dogs,  —  the  squaw's  mad  scream, 
The  dash  of  paddles  along  the  stream, 
The  whistle  of  shot  as  it  cuts  the  leaves 
Of  the  maples  around  the  church's  eaves, 
And  the  gride  of  hatchets  fiercely  thrown 
On  wigwam-log  and  tree  and  stone. 
Black  with  the  grime  of  paint  and  dust, 

Spotted  and  streaked  with  human  gore, 
A  grim  and  naked  head  is  thrust 

Within  the  chapel-door. 
''  Ha  —  Bomazeen  !     In  God's  name  say, 
What  mean  these  sounds  of  bloody  fray  ?  " 
Silent,  the  Indian  points  his  hand 

To  where  across  the  echoing  glen 
Sweep  Harmon's  dreaded  ranger-band, 

And  Moulton  with  his  men. 
**  Where  are  thy  warriors,  Bomazeen  ? 
Where  are  De  Rouville  and  Castine, 
And  where  the  braves  of  Sawga's  queen  ?  " 
"  Let  my  father  find  the  winter  snow 
Which  the  sun  drank  up  long  moons  ago  ! 
Under  the  falls  of  Tacconock, 
The  wolves  are  eating  the  Norridgewock  ; 
Castine  with  his  wives  lies  closely  hid 
Like  a  fox  in  the  woods  of  Pemaquid  ! 
On  Sawga's  banks  the  man  of  war 
Sits  in  his  wigwam  like  a  squaw  ; 
Sqnando  has  fled,  and  Mogg  Megone, 

Struck  by  the  knife  of  Sagamore  John, 
Lies  stiff  and  stark  and  cold  as  a  stone." 

Fearfully  over  the  Jesuit's  face, 

Of  a  thousand  thoughts,  trace  after  trace, 

Like  swift  cloud-shadows,  each  other  chase. 

One  instant,  his  fingers  grasp  his  knife, 

For  a  last  vain  struggle  for  cherished  life,  — 

The  next,  he  hurls  the  blade  away, 

And  kneels  at  his  altar's  foot  to  pray  ; 

Over  his  beads  his  fingers  stray, 

And  he  kisses  the  cross,  and  calls  aloud 

On  the  Virgin  and  her  Son  ; 

For  terrible  thoughts  his  memory  crowd 

Of  evil  seen  and  done, 

Of  scalps  brought  home  by  his  savage  flock 
From  Casco  and  Sawga  and  Sagadahock 

In  the  Church's  service  won. 

No  chrift  the  gloomy  savage  brooks, 

As  scowling  on  the  priest  he  looks  : 

"  Cowesass  —  cowesass  —  tawhich  wessa  seen  ? 

Let  my  father  look  upon  Bomazeen,  — 

My  father's  heart  is  the  heart  of  a  squaw, 

But  mine  is  so  hard  that  it  does  not  thaw  ; 

Let  my  father  ask  his  God  to  make 

A  dance  and  a  feast  for  a  great  sagamore, 
When  he  paddles  across  tha  ^restem  lake. 


With  his  dogs  and  his  squaws  to  the  spirit^ 

shore. 

C jwesass  —  cowesass  —  tawhich  wessa  seen  ? 
Let  my  father  die  like  Bomazeen  1  " 

Through  the  chapel's  narrow  doors, 

And  through  each  window  in  the  walls, 
Round  the  priest  and  warrior  pours 

The  deadly  shower  of  English  balls. 
Low  on  his  cross  the  Jesuit  falls  ; 
While  at  his  side  the  Norridgewock, 
With  failing  breath,  essays  to  mock 
And  menace  yet  the  hated  foe, 
Shakes  his  scalp-trophies  to  and  fro 

Exultingly  before  their  eyes, 
Till,  cleft  and  torn  by  shot  and  blow, 

Defiant  still,  he  dies. 

"  So  fare  all  eaters  of  the  frog ! 
Death  to  the  Babylonish  dog ! 

Down  with  the  beast  of  Rome  ! ' 
With  shouts  like  these,  around  the  dead, 
Unconscious  on  his  bloody  bed, 

The  rangers  crowding  come. 
Brave  men  !  the  dead  priest  cannot  hear 
The  unfeeling  taunt,  —  the  brutal  jeer  ; 
Spurn  —  for  he  sees  ye  not  —  in  wrath, 
The  symbol  of  your  Saviour's  death  ; 

Tear  from  his  death-grasp,  in  your  zeal. 
And  trample,  as  a  thing  accursed, 
The  cross  he  cherished  in  the  dust : 

The  dead  man  cannot  feel ! 

Brutal  alike  in  deed  and  word, 

WTith  callous  heart  and  hand  of  strife, 
How  like  a  fiend  may  man  be  made, 
Plying  the  foul  and  monstrous  trade 

Whose  harvest-field  is  human  life, 
WThose  sickle  is  the  reeking  sword  ! 
Quenching,  with  reckless  hand  in  blood. 
Sparks  kindled  by  the  breath  of  God  ; 
Urging  the  deathless  soul,  unshriven, 

Of  open  guilt  or  secret  sin, 
Before  the  bar  of  that  pure  Heaven 

The  holy  only  enter  in  ! 
Oh,  by  the  widow's  sore  distress, 
The  orphan's  wailing  wretchedness, 
By  Virtue  struggling  in  the  accursed 
Embraces  of  polluting  Lust, 
By  the  fell  discord  of  the  Pit, 
And  the  pained  souk  that  people  it, 
And  by  the  blessed  peace  which  fills 

The  Paradise  of  God  forever, 
Resting  on  all  its  holy  hills, 

And  flowing  with  its  crystal  river,  - 
Let  Christian  hands  no  longer  bear 

In  triumph  on  his  crimson  car 

The  foul  and  idol  god  of  war ; 
No  more  the  purple  wreaths  prepare 
To  bind  amid  his  snaky  hair  ; 
Nor  Christian  bards  his  glories  tell, 
Nor  Christian  tongues  his  praises  swell. 

Through  the  gun-smoke  wreathing  white 
Glimpses  on  the  soldier's  sight 
A  thing  of  human  shape  I  ween, 
For  a  moment  only  seen. 


EARLY   AND    UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


5°5 


With  its  loose  hair  backward  streaming, 
And  its  eyeballs  madly  gleaming, 
Shrieking,  like  a  soul  in  pain, 

From  the  world  of  light  and  breath, 
Hurrying  to  its  place  again, 

Spectre-like  it  vanisheth ! 

Wretched  girl !  one  eye  alone 
Notes  the  way  which  thou  hast  gone. 
That  great  Eye,  which  slumbers  never, 
Watching  o'er  a  lost  world  ever, 
Tracks  thee  over  vale  and  mountain, 
By  the  gushing  forest-fountain, 
Plucking  from  the  vine  its  fruit, 
Searching  for  the  ground-nut's  root, 
Peering  in  the  she-wolf's  den, 
Wading  through  the  marshy  fen, 
Where  the  sluggish  water-snake 
Basks  beside  the  sunny  brake, 
Coiling  in  his  slimy  bed, 
Smooth  and  cold  against  thy  tread  ; 
Purposeless,  thy  mazy  way 
Threading  through  the  lingering  day, 
And  at  night  securely  sleeping 
Where  the  dogwood's  dews  are  weeping ! 
Still,  though  earth  and  man  discard  thee, 
Doth  thy  Heavenly  Father  guard  thee  : 
He  who  spared  the  guilty  Cain, 

Even  when  a  brother's  blood, 

Crying  in  the  ear  of  God, 
Gave  the  earth  its  primal  stain  ; 
lie  whose  mercy  ever  liveth, 
Who  repenting  guilt  forgiveth, 
And  the  broken  heart  receiveth  ; 
Wanderer  of  the  wilderness, 

Haunted,  guilty,  crazed  and  wild, 
He  regardeth  thy  distress, 

And  careth  for  His  sinful  child  I 


'Tis  springtime  on  the  eastern  hills  ! 
Like  torrents  gush  the  summer  rills  ; 
Through  winter's  moss  and  dry  dead  leaves 
The  bladed  grass  revives  and  lives, 
Pushes  the  mouldering  waste  away, 
For  glimpses  to  the  April  day. 
In  kindly  shower  and  sunshine  bud 
The  branches  of  the  dull  gray  wood  ; 
Out  from  its  sunned  and  sheltered  nooks 
The  blue  eye  of  the  violet  looks  ; 

The  southwest  wind  is  warmly  blowing, 
And  odors  from  the  springing  grass, 
The  pine-tree  and  the  sassafras, 

Are  with  it  on  its  errands  going. 

A  band  is  marching  through  the  wood 
Where  rolls  the  Kennebec  his  flood ; 
The  warriors  of  the  wilderness, 
Painted,  and  in  their  battle  dress  ; 
And  with  them  one  whose  bearded  cheek, 
And  white  and  wrinkled  brow,  bespeak 

A  wanderer  from  the  shores  of  France. 
A  few  long  locks  of  scattering  snow 
Beneath  a  battered  morion  flow, 
And  from  the  rivets  of  the  vest 
Which  girds  in  steel  his  ample  breast, 

The  slanted  sunbeams  glance. 


In  the  harsh  outlines  of  his  face 
Passion  and  sin  have  left  their  trace  ; 
Yet,  save  worn  brow  and  thin  gray  hair, 
No  signs  of  weary  age  are  there. 

His  step  is  firm,  his  eye  is  keen, 
Nor  years  in  broil  and  battle  spent, 
Nor  toil,  nor  wounds,  nor  pain  have  bent 

The  lordly  frame  of  old  Castine. 

No  purpose  now  of  strife  and  blood 

Urges  the  hoary  veteran  on : 
The  fire  of  conquest  and  the  mood 

Of  chivalry  have  gone, 
A  mournful  task  is  his,  — to  lay 

Within  the  earth  the  bones  of  those 
Who  perished  in  that  fearful  day, 
When  Norridgewock  became  the  prey 

Of  all  unsparing  foes. 
Sadly  and  still,  dark  thoughts  between, 
Of  coming  vengeance  mused  Castine, 
Of  the  fallen  chieftain  Bomazeen, 
Who  bade  for  him  the  Norridgewocks 
Dig  up  their  buried  tomahawks 

For  firm  defence  or  swift  attack  ; 
And  him  whose  friendship  formed  the  tie 

Which  held  the  stern  self -exile  back 
From  lapsing  into  savagery  ; 
Whose  garb  and  tone  and  kindly  glance 

Recalled  a  younger,  happier  day, 

And  prompted  memory's  fond  essay, 

To  bridge  the  mighty  waste  which  lay 

Between  his  wild  home  and  that  gray, 
Tall  chateau  of  his  native  France  : 
Whose  chapel  bell,  with  far-heard  din, 
Ushered  his  birth-hour  gayly  in, 
And  counted  with  its  solemn  toll 
The  masses  for  his  father's  soul. 

Hark  !  from  the  foremost  of  the  band 

Suddenly  bursts  the  Indian  yell ; 
For  now  on  the  very  spot  they  stand 

Where  the  Norridgewocks  fighting  fell. 
No  wigwam  smoke  is  curling  there  ; 
The  very  earth  is  scorched  and  bare  : 
And  they  pause  and  listen  to  catch  a  sound 

Of  breathing  life,  —  but  there  comes  not  one 
Save  the  fox's  bark  and  the  rabbit's  bound  ; 
But  here  and  there,  on  the  blackened  ground, 

White  bones  are  glistening  in  the  sun. 
And  where  the  house  of  prayer  arose, 
And  the  holy  hymn,  at  daylight's  close. 
And  the  aged  priest  stood  up  to  bless 
The  children  of  the  wilderness, 
There  is  naught  save  ashes  sodden  and  dank  ; 

And  the  birchen  boats  of  the  Norridgewock. 

Tethered  to  tree  and  stump  and  rock 
Rotting  along  the  river  bank  ! 

Blessed  Mary  !  who  is  she 
Leaning  against  that  maple-tree  ? 
The  sun  upon  her  face  burns  hot, 
But  the  fixed  eyelid  moveth  not ; 
The  squirrel's  chirp  is  shrill  and  clear 
From  the  dry  bough  above  her  ear ; 
Dashing  from  rock  and  root  its  spray, 

Close  at  her  feet  the  river  rushes  ; 

The  blackbird's  wing  against  her  brushes* 


506 


APPENDIX 


And  sweetly  through  the  hazel-bushes 
The  robin's  mellow  music  gushes  ; 
God  save  her !  will  she  sleep  alway  ? 

Castine  hath  bent  him  over  the  sleeper  : 

44  Wake,  daughter,  —  wake  !  "   but  she  stirs 
no  limb : 

The  eye  that  looks  on  him  is  fixed  and  dim  ; 
And  the  sleep  she  is  sleeping  shall  be  no  deeper, 

Until  the  angel's  oath  is  said, 
And  the  final  blast  of  the  trump  goes  forth 
To   the  graves  of  the  sea  and  the   graves  of 
earth 

Ruth  Boniton  is  dead ! 


THE  PAST  AND    COMING  YEAR 

WAVE  of  an  awful  torrent,  thronging  down, 
With  all  the  wealth  of  centuries,  and  the  cold 
Embraces  of  eternity,  o'erstrown 
With  the  great  wrecks  of  empire,  and  the  old 
Magnificence  of  nations,  who  are  gone ; 
Thy  last,  faint  murmur  —  thy  departing  sigh, 
Along  the  shore  of  being,  like  a  tone 
Thrilling  on  broken  harp-strings,  or  the  swell 
Of  the  chained  winds'  last  whisper,  hath  gor 

by, 
And  thou    hast   floated    from    the   world    of 

breath 

To  the  still  guidance  of  o'ermastering  Death, 
Thy  pilot  to  eternity.     Farewell  1 


gone 


Go,  swell  the  throngf  ul  past.     Go,  blend  with 

all 
The  garnered  things  of  Death ;  and  bear  with 

thee 

The  treasures  of  thy  pilgrimage,  the  tall 
And  beautiful  dreams  of  Hope,  the  ministry 
Of  Love  and  high  Ambition.     Man  remains 
To  dream  again  as  idly  ;  and  the  stains 
Of  passion  will  be  visible  once  more. 
The  winged  spirit  will  not  be  confined 
By  the  experience  of  thy  journey.     Mind 
Will  struggle  in  its  prison-house,  and  still, 
With  Earth's  strong  fetters  binding  it  to  ill, 
Unfurl  the  pinions  fitted  but  to  soar 
In  that  pure  atmosphere,  where  spirits  range  — 
The  home  of  high  existences  —  where  change 
And  blighting  may  not  enter.     Love  again 
Will  bloom,  a  fickle  flower,  upon  the  grave 
Of  old  affections  ;  and  Ambition  wave 
His  eagle-plume  most  proudly,  for  the  rein 
Of  Conscience  will  be  loosened  from  the  soul 
To  give  his  purpose  freedom.     The  control 
Of  reason  will  be  changeful,  and  the  ties 
Which  gather  hearts  together,  and  make  up 
The  romance  of  existence,  will  be  rent : 
Yea,  poison  will  be  poured  in  Friendship's  cup  ; 
And  for  Earth's  low  familiar  element, 
Even  Love  itself  forsake  its  kindred  skies. 

B^t  not  alone  dark  visions  !  happier  things 
Will  float  above  existence,  like  the  wings 
Of  the  starred  bird  of  paradise  ;  and  Love 
Will  not  be  all  a  dream,  or  rather  prove 
£  dream  —  a  sweet  f  orgetf  uluess  —  that  hath 


No  wakeful  changes,  ending  but  in  Death. 
Yea,  pure  hearts  shall  be  pledged  beneath  the 

eyes 

Of  the  beholding  heaven,  and  in  the  light 
Of  the  love-hallowed  moon.     The  quiet  Night 
•Shall  hear  that  language  underneath  the  skies 
Which  whispereth  above  them,  as  the  prayer 
And  the  deep  vow  are  spoken.     Passing  fair 
And  gifted  creatures,  with  the  light  of  truth 
And  undebarred  affection,  as  a  crown, 
Resting  upon  the  beautiful  brow  of  youth, 
Shall  smile  on  stately  manhood,  kneeling  down 
Before  them,  as  to  Idols.     Friendship's  hand 
Shall  clasp  its  brothers  ;  and  Affection's  tear 
Be  sanctified  with  sympathy.     The  bier 
Of  stricken  love  shall  lose   the  fears,  which 

Death 

Giveth  his  awful  work,  and  earnest  Faith 
Shall  look  beyond  the  shadow  of  the  clay, 
The  pulseless  sepulchre,  the  cold  decay  ; 
And  to  the  quiet  of  the  spirit-land 
Follow  the  mourned  and  lovely.     Gifted  ones 
Lighting  the  Heaven  of  Intellect,  like  suns, 
Shall  wrestle  well  with  circumstance,  and  beai 
The  agony  of  scorn,  the  preying  care, 
Wedded  to  burning  bosoms ;  and  go  down 
In  sorrow  to  the  noteless  sepulchre, 
With  one  lone  hope  embracing  Jike  a  crown 
The  cold  and  death-like  forehead  of  Despair, 
That  after  times  shall  treasure  up  their  fame 
Even  as  a  proud  inheritance  and  high  ; 
And  beautiful  beings  love  to  breathe  their  namfl 
With  the  recorded  things  that  never  die. 

And  thou,  gray  voyager  to  the  breezeless  sea 
Of  infinite  Oblivion  —  speed  thou  on; 
Another  gift  of  time  succeedeth  thee 
Fresh  from  the  hand  of  God ;  for  thou  hast  dona 
The  errand  of  thy  destiny  ;  and  none 
May  dream  of  thy  returning.     Go,  and  bear 
Mortality's  frail  records  to  thy  cold, 
Eternal  prison-house  ;  the  midnight  prayer 
Of  suffering  bosoms,  and  the  fevered  care 
Of  worldly  hearts  ;  the  miser's  dream  of  gold ; 
Ambition's   grasp  at  greatness;   the  quenched 

light 

Of  broken  spirits  ;  the  forgiven  wrong 
And  the  abiding  curse  —  ay,  bear  along 
These  wrecks  of  thy  own  making.    Lo,  thy  knell 
Gathers  upon  the  windy  breath  of  night, 
Its  last  and  faintest  echo.     Fare  thee  well ! 


THE    MISSIONARY 

"  It  is  an  awful,  an  arduous  thing  to  root  out 
every  affection  for  earthly  things,  so  as  to  live 
only  for  another  world.  I  am  now  far,  very 
f ari  from  you  all ;  and  as  often  as  I  look  around 
and  see  the  Indian  scenery,  I  sigh  to  think  of 
the  distance  which  separates  us."  —  Letters  oj 
Henry  Martyn,  from  India. 

44  SAY,  whose  is  this  fair  picture,  which  the  light 

From  the  unshutter'd  window  rests  upon 
Even  as  a  lingering  halo  ?     Beautiful ! 


EARLY   AND   UNCOLLECTED   VERSES 


The  keen,  fine  eye  of  manhood,  and  a  lip 
Lovely  as  tnat  of  Hylas,  and  impressed 
With  the  bright  signet  of  some  brilliant  thought ; 
That  broad  expanse  of  forehead,  clear  and  high, 
Marked  visibly  with  the  characters  of  mind, 
And  the  free  locks  around  it,  raven  black, 
Luxuriant  and  unsilver'd  !  —  who  was  he  ?  " 

A  friend,  a  more  than  brother.     In  the  spring 

And  glory  of  his  being  he  went  forth 

From  the  embraces  of  devoted  friends, 

From  ease  and  quiet  happiness,  from  more  — 

From  the  warm  heart  that  loved  him  with  a  love 

Holier  than  earthly  passion,  and  to  whom 

The  beauty  of  his  spirit  shone  above 

The  charms  of  perishing  nature.     He  went  forth 

Strengthened  to  suffer,  gifted  to  subdue 

The  might  of  human  passion,  to  pass  on 

Quietly  to  the  sacrifice  of  all 

The  lofty  hopes  of  boyhood,  and  to  turn 

The  high  ambition  written  on  that  brow, 

From  its  first  dream  of  power  and  human  fame, 

Unto  a  task  of  seeming  lowliness, 

Yet  God-like  in  its  purpose.     He  went  forth 

To  bind  the  broken  spirit,  to  pluck  back 

The  heathen  from  the  wheel  of  Juggernaut ; 

To  place  the  spiritual  image  of  a  God 

Holy  and  just  and  true,  before  the  eye 

Of  the  dark-minded  Brahmin,  and  unseal 

The  holy  pages  of  the  Book  of  Life, 

Fraught  with  sublimer  mysteries  than  all 

The  sacred  tomes  of  Vedas,  to  unbind 

The  widow  from  her  sacrifice,  and  save 

The  perishing  infant  from  the  worshipped  river ! 

''And,  lady,  where  is  he  ?  "     He  slumbers  well 
Beneath  the  shadow  of  an  Indian  palm. 
There  is  no  stone  above  his  grave.     The  wind, 
Hot  from  the  desert,  as  it  stirs  the  leaves 
Heavy  and  long  above  him,  sighs  alone 
Over  his  place  of  slumber. 

"  God  forbid 

J  hat  he  should  die  alone !  "     Nay,  not  alone. 
His  God  was  with  him  in  that  last  dread  hour ; 
His  great  arm  underneath  him,  and  His  smile 
Melting  into  a  spirit  full  of  peace. 
And   one   kind  friend,   a  human  friend,   was 

near  — 

One  whom  his  teachings  and  his  earnest  prayers 
Had  snatch'd  as  from  the  burning.     He  alone 
Felt  the  last  pressure  of  his  failing  hand, 
Caught  the  last  glimpse  of  his  closing  eye, 
And  laid  the  green  turf  over  him  with  tears, 
And  left  him  with  his  God. 

"  And  was  it  well, 

Dear  lady,  that  this  noble  mind  should  cast 
Its  rich  gifts  on  the  waters  ?     That  a  heart 
.bull  of  all  gentleness  and  truth  and  love 
Should  wither  on  the  suicidal  shrine 
Of  a  mistaken  duty  ?     If  I  read 
Aright  the  fine  intelligence  which  fills 
That  amplitude  of  brow,  and  gazes  out 
Like  an  indwelling  spirit  from  that  eye, 
He  might  have  borne  him  loftily  among 
The  nroudest  of  his  land,  and  with  a  steo 


Unfaltering  ever,  steadfast  and  secure, 
Gone  up  the  paths  of  greatness,  —  bearing  still 
A  sister  spirit  with  him,  as  some  star, 
Preeminent  in  Heaven,  leads  steadily  up 
A  kindred  watcher,  with  its  fainter  beams 
Baptized  in  its  great  glory.     Was  it  well 
That  all  this  promise  of  the  heart  and  mind 
Should   perish   from   the   earth,  and  leave  no 

trace, 

Unfolding  like  the  Cereus  of  the  clime 
Which  hath  its  sepulchre,  but  in  the  night 
Of  pagan  desolation  —  was  it  well  ?  " 

Thy  will  be  done,  0  Father  !  —  it  was  well. 
What  are  the  honors  of  a  perishing  world 
Grasp'd  by  a  palsied  finger  ?  the  applause 
Of  the  unthoughtf ul  multitude  which  greets 
The  dull  ear  of  decay  ?  the  wealth  that  loads 
The  bier  with  costly  drapery,  and  shines 
In  tinsel  on  the  coffin,  and  builds  up 
The  cold  substantial  monument  ?     Can  these 
Bear  up  the  sinking  spirit  in  that  hour 
When  heart  and  flesh  are  failing,  and  the  grave 
Is  opening  under  us  ?     Oh,  dearer  then 
The  memory  of  a  kind  deed  done  to  him 
Who  was  our  enemy,  one  grateful  tear 
In  the  meek  eye  of  virtuous  suffering, 
One  smile  call'd  up  by  unseen  charity 
On  the  wan  lips  of  hunger,  or  one  prayer 
Breathed  from  the  bosoin  of  the  penitent  — 
The  stain'd  with  crime  and  outcast,  unto  whom 
Our  mild  rebuke  and  tenderness  of  love 
A  merciful  God  hath  bless'd. 

"  But,  lady,  say, 

Did  he  not  sometimes  almost  sink  beneath 
The  burden  of  his  toil,  and  turn  aside 
To  weep  above  his  sacrifice,  and  cast 
A  sorrowing  glance  upon  his  childhood's  home, 
Still  green  in  memory  ?     Clung  not  to  his  hear, 
Something  of  earthly  hope  uncrucified, 
Of  earthly  thought  unchasteued  ?    Did  he  bring 
Life's  warm  affections  to  the  sacrifice  — 
Its  loves,  hopes,  sorrows  —  and  become  as  one 
Knowing  no  kindred  but  a  perishing  world, 
No  love  but  of  the  sin-endangered  soul, 
No  hope  but  of  the  winning  back  to  life 
Of  the  dead  nations,  and  no  passing  thought 
Save  of  the  errand  wherewith  he  was  sent 
As  to  a  martyrdom  ?  " 

Nay,  though  the  heart 
Be  consecrated  to  the  holiest  work 
Vouchsafed  to  mortal  effort,  there  will  be 
Ties  of  the  earth  around  it,  and,  through  all 
Its  perilous  devotion,  it  must  keep 
Its  own  humanity.     And  it  is  well. 
Else  why  wept  He,  who  with  our  nature  veiled 
The  spirit  of  a  God,  o'er  lost  Jerusalem. 
And  the  cold  grave  of  Lazarus  ?     And  why 
In  the  dim  garden  rose  his  earnest  prayer, 
That  from  his  lips  the  cup  of  suffering 
Might  pass,  if  it  were  possible  ? 

My  friend 

Was  of  a  gentle  nature,  and  his  heart 
Gushed  like  a  river-fountain  of  the  hills. 


S°8 


APPENDIX 


Ceaseless  and  lavish,  at  a  kindly  smile, 
A  word  of  welcome,  or  a  tone  of  love. 
Freely  his  letters  to  his  friends  disclosed 
His  yearnings  for  the  quiet  haunts  of  home, 
For  love  and  its  companionship,  and  all 
The  blessings  left  behind  him  ;  yet  above 
Its  sorrows  and  its  clouds  his  spirit  rose, 
Tearful  and  yet  triumphant,  taking  hold 
Of  the  eternal  promises  of  God, 
And  steadfast  in  its  faith. 

Here  are  some  lines 

Penned  in  his  lonely  mission-house  and  sent 
To  a  dear  friend  at  home  who  even  now 
Lingers  above  them  with  a  mournful  joy, 
Holding  them  well-nigh  sacred  as  a  leaf 
Plucked  from  the  record  of  a  breaking  heart- 


EVENING    IN    BURMAH 

A  night  of  wonder  !  piled  afar 

With  ebon  feet  and  crests  of  snow, 

Like  Himalaya's  peaks,  which  bar 

The  sunset  and  the  sunset's  star 

From  half  the  shadowed  vale  below, 

Volumed  and  vast  the  dense  clouds  lie, 

And  over  them,  and  down  the  sky, 
Paled  in  the  moon,  the  lightnings  go. 

And  what  a  strength  of  light  and  shade 

Is  chequering  all  the  earth  below  ! 
And,  through  the  jungle's  verdant  braid, 
Of  tangled  vine  and  wild  reed  made, 

What  blossoms  in  the  moonlight  glow  ! 
The  Indian  rose's  loveliness, 
The  ceiba  with  its  crimson  dress, 

The  twining  myrtle  dropped  with  snow. 

And  flitting  in  the  fragrant  air, 

Or  nestling  in  the  shadowy  trees, 
A  thousand  bright-hued  birds  are  there  — 
Strange  plumage,  quivering  wild  and  rare, 

With  every  faintly  breathing  breeze  ; 
And,  wet  with  dew  from  roses  shed. 
The  bulbul  droops  her  weary  head, 
Forgetful  of  her  melodies. 

Uprising  from  the  orange-leaves, 
The  tall  pagoda's  turrets  glow  ; 
O'er  graceful  shaft  and  fretted  eaves, 
Its  verdant  web  the  myrtle  weaves, 

And  hangs  in  flowering  wreaths  below  ; 
And  where  the  clustered  palms  eclipse 
The  moonbeams,  from  its  marble  lips 
The  fountain's  silver  waters  flow. 

Strange  beauty  fills  the  earth  and  air, 
The  fragrant  grove  and  flowering  tree, 

And  yet  my  thoughts  are  wandering  where 

My  native  rocks  lie  bleak  and  bare, 
A  weary  way  beyond  the  sea. 

The  yearning  spirit  is  not  here  ; 

It  lingers  on  a  spot  more  dear 

Than  India's  brightest  bowers  to  me. 

Methinks  I  tread  the  well-known  street  — 
The  tree  my  childhood  loved  is  there, 


Its  bare-worn  roots  are  at  my  feet, 
And  through  its  open  boughs  I  meet 

White  glimpses  of  the  place  of  prayer  • 
And  unforgotten  eyes  again 
Are  glancing  through  the  cottage  pane, 

Than  Asia's  lustrous  eyes  more  fair. 

Oh,  holy  haunts  !  oh,  childhood's  home  ! 

Where,  now,  my  wandering  heart,  is  thiue '. 
Here,  where  the  dusky  heathen  come 
To  bow  before  the  deaf  and  dumb, 

Dead  idols  of  their  own  design  ; 
Where  in  their  worshipped  river's  tide 
The  infant  sinks,  and  on  its  side 

The  widow's  funeral  altars  shine ! 

Here,  where,  mid  light  and  song  and  flowers 

The  priceless  soul  in  ruin  lies ; 
Lost,  dead  to  all  those  better  powers 
Which  link  this  fallen  world  of  ours 

To  God's  clear-shining  Paradise  ; 
And  wrong  and  shame  and  hideous  crime 
Are  like  the  foliage  of  their  clime, 

The  unshorn  growth  of  centuries  ! 

Turn,  then,  my  heart ;  thy  home  is  here  ; 

No  other  now  remains  for  thee  : 
The  smile  of  love,  and  friendship's  tear, 
The  tones  that  melted  on  thine  ear, 

The  mutual  thrill  of  sympathy, 
The  welcome  of  the  household  band, 
The  pressure  of  the  lip  and  hand, 

Thou  mayst  not  hear,  nor  feel,  nor  see. 

God  of  my  spirit !  Thou,  alone, 

Who  watchest  o'er  my  pillowed  head, 
Whose  ear  is  open  to  the  moan 
And  sorrowing  of  thy  child,  hast  known 
The  grief  which  at  my  heart  has  fed  ; 
The  struggle  of  my  soul  to  rise 
Above  its  earth-born  sympathies  ; 
The  tears  of  many  a  sleepless  bed ! 

Oh  !  be  Thine  arm,  as  it  hath  been, 

In  every  test  of  heart  and  faith,  — 
The  tempter's  doubt,  the  wiles  of  men, 
The  heathen's  scoff,  the  bosom  sin,  — 

A  helper  and  a  stay  beneath  ; 
A  strength  in  weakness,  through  the  strife 
And  anguish  of  my  wasting  life  — 
My  solace  and  my  hope,  in  death ! 


MASSACHUSETTS 

Written  on  hearing-  that  the  Resolutions  of 
the  Legislature  of  Massachusetts  on  the  subject 
of  Slavery,  presented  by  Hon.  C.  Gushing  to  the 
House  of  Representatives  of  the  United  States 
[in  1837]  had  been  laid  on  the  table  unread  and 
unref erred,  under  the  infamous  rule  of  "  Pat 
ton's  Resolution." 

AND  have  they  spurned  thy  word, 
Thou  of  the  old  Thirteen  ! 


POEMS   PRINTED   IN   THE   "LIFE   OF  WHITTIER "      509 


Whose  soil,  where  Freedom's  blood  first  poured, 

Hath  yet  a  darker  green  ? 
To  outworn  patience  suffering  long 
Is  insult  added  to  the  wrong  ? 

And  have  they  closed  thy  mouth, 

And  fixed  the  padlock  fast  ? 
Dumb  as  the  black  slave  of  the  South  ! 

Is  this  thy  fate  at  last  ? 
Oh  shame  !  thy  honored  seal  and  sign 
Trod  under  hoofs  so  asinine  ! 

Call  from  the  Capitol 

Thy  chosen  ones  again, 
Unmeet  for  them  the  base  control 

Of  Slavery's  curbing  rein  ! 
Unmeet  for  men  like  them  to  feel 
The  spurring  of  a  rider's  heel. 

When  votes  are  things  of  trade 

And  force  is  argument, 
Call  back  to  Quiiicy's  shade 

Thy  old  man  eloquent. 
Why  leave  him  longer  striving  thus 
With  the  wild  beasts  of  Ephesus ! 

Back  from  the  Capitol  — 

It  is  no  place  for  thee  ! 
Beneath  the  arch  of  Heaven's  blue  wall, 

Thy  voice  may  still  be  free  ! 
What  power  shall  chain  thy  utterance  there, 
En  God's  free  sun  and  freer  air? 

A  voice  is  calling  thee, 

From  all  the  martyr  graves 
Of  those  stern  men,  in  death  made  free, 

Who  could  not  live  as  slaves. 
The  slumberings  of  thy  honored  dead 
Are  for  thy  sake  disquieted. 

So  let  thy  Faneuil  Hall 

By  freemen's  feet  be  trod, 
And  give  the  echoes  of  its  wall 

Once  more  to  Freedom's  God  ! 
And  in  the  midst  unseen  shall  stand 
The  mighty  fathers  of  thy  land. 

Thy  gathered  sons  shall  feel 

The  soul  of  Adams  near, 
And  Otis  with  his  fiery  zeal, 

And  Warren's  onward  cheer  ; 
And  heart  to  heart  shall  thrill  as  when 
They  moved  and  spake  as  living  men. 

Not  on  Potomac's  side, 

With  treason  in  thy  rear, 
Can  Freedom's  holy  cause  be  tried  : 

Not  there,  my  State,  but  here. 
Here  must  thy  needed  work  be  done, 
The  battle  at  thy  hearth-stone  won. 

Proclaim  a  new  crusade 

Against  the  foes  within  ; 
From  bar  and  pulpit,  press  and  trade, 

Cast  out  the  shame  and  sin. 
Then  speak  thy  now-unheeded  word, 
Its  lightest  whisper  shall  be  heard. 


II.  POEMS    PRINTED    IN   THE  "LIFE 
OF   WHITTIER" 

THE   HOME-COMING   OF   THE   BRIDE 

[The  home  of  Sarah  Greenleaf  was  upon  the 
Newbury  shore  of  the  Merrimac,  nearly  oppo 
site  the  home  of  the  Whittiers.  The  house 
was  standing1  until  a  recent  date.  Among-  Mr. 
Whittier's  papers  was  found  the  following1  f  rag1- 
ment  of  a  ballad  about  the  home-coming1,  as 
a  bride,  of  his  grandmother,  Sarah  Greenleaf, 
now  first  published.] 

SARAH  GKEENLEAF,  of  eighteen  years, 

Stepped  lightly  her  bridegroom's  boat  within, 
Waving  mid-river,  through  smiles  and  tears, 

A  farewell  back  to  her  kith  and  kin. 
With  her  sweet  blue  eyes  and  her  new  gold  gown, 

She  sat  by  her  stalwart  lover's  side  — 
Oh,  never  was  brought  to  Haverhill  town 

By  land  or  water  so  fair  a  bride. 
Glad  as  the  glad  autumnal  weather, 

The  Indian  summer  so  soft  and  warm, 
They  walked  through  the  golden  woods  to 
gether, 

His  arm  the  girdle  about  her  form. 

They  passed  the  dam  and  the  gray  gristmill, 

Whose  walls  with  the  jar  of  grinding  shook, 
And  crossed,  for  the  moment  awed  and  still, 

The  haunted  bridge  of  the  Country  Brook. 
The  great  oaks  seemed  on  Job's  Hill  crown 

To  wave  in  welcome  their  branches  strong, 
And  an  upland  streamlet  came  rippling  down 

Over  root  and  rock,  like  a  bridal  song. 
And  lo  !  in  the  midst  of  a  clearing  stood 

The  rough-built  farmhouse,  low  and  lone, 
While  all  about  it  the  unhewn  wood 

Seemed  drawing  closer  to  claim  its  own. 

But  the  red  apples  dropped  from  orchard  trees, 
The  red  cock  crowed  011  the  low  fence  rail, 

From  the  garden  hives  came  the  sound  of  bees, 
On  the  barn  floor  pealed  the  smiting  flail. 


THE  SONG  OF  THE  VERMONTERS,  1779 

[Written  during1  school-days,  and  published 
anonymously  in  1833.  The  secret  of  author- 
ship  was  not  discovered  for  sixty  years.] 

Ho  —  all  to  the  borders!      Vermonters,   come 

down, 
With  your  breeches  of  deerskin  and  jackets  of 

brown ; 
With  your  red  woollen  caps,  and  your  moccasins, 

come, 
To  the   gathering    summons   of    trumpet    and 

drum. 

Come  down  with  your  rifles !      Let  gray  wolf 

and  fox 
Howl  on  in  the  shade  of  their  primitive  rocks ; 


APPENDIX 


Let  the  bear  feed  securely  from  pig-pen  and 

stall ; 
Here 's  two-legged  game  for  your  powder  and 

ball. 

On  our  south  came  the  Dutchmen,  enveloped  in 

grease ; 

And  arming  for  battle  while  canting  of  peace  ; 
On  our  east,  crafty  Meshech  has  gathered  his 

band 
To  hang  up  our  leaders  and  eat  up  our  land. 

Ho  —  all  to  the  rescue  !     For  Satan  shall  work 
No  gain  for  his  legions  of  Hampshire  and  York  ! 
They     claim     our     possessions   —  the     pitiful 

knaves  — 
The  tribute  we  pay  shall  be  prisons  and  graves  ! 

Let  Clinton  and  Ten  Broek,  with  bribes  in  their 

hands, 

Still  seek  to  divide  and  parcel  our  lands  ; 
We  've  coats  for  our  traitors,  whoever  they  are  ; 
The  warp  is  of  feathers  —  the  filling  of  tar : 

Does  the  "  old  Bay  State  "  threaten  ?     Does 

Congress  complain  ? 
Swarms    Hampshire   in   arms   on  our  borders 

again  ? 
Bark   the   war-dogs   of   Britain   aloud   on   the 

lake  — 
Let  'em  come  ;  what  they  can  they  are  welcome 

to  take. 

What  seek  they  among  us  ?     The  pride  of  our 

wealth 

Is  comfort,  contentment,  and  labor,  and  health, 
And  lands   which,  as   Freemen,  we   only  have 

trod, 
Independent  of  all,  save  the  mercies  of  God. 

Yet  we  owe  no  allegiance,  we  bow  to  no  throne, 
Our  ruler  is  law,  and  the  law  is  our  own  ; 
Our  leaders  themselves  are  our  own  fellow-men, 
Who  can  handle  the  sword,  or  the  scythe,  or  the 
pen. 

Our  wives  are  all  true,  and  our  daughters  are 

fair, 
With  their  blue  eyes  of  smiles  and  their  light 

flowing  hair, 

All  brisk  at  their  wheels  till  the  dark  even-fall, 
Then  blithe  at  the  sleigh-ride,  the  husking,  and 

ball! 

We  've  sheep  on  the  hillsides,  we  've  cows  on 
the  plain, 

And  gay-tasselled  corn-fields  and  rank-growing 
grain ; 

There  are  deer  on  the  mountains,  and  wood- 
pigeons  fly 

From  the  crack  of  our  muskets,  like  clouds  on 
the  sky. 

And  there  's  fish  in  our  streamlets  and  rivers 

which  take 
Cheir  course  from  the  hills  to  our  broad-bosomed 

lake; 


Through  rock-arched  Winooski  the  salmon  leaps 

And  the  portly  shad  follows  all  fresh  from  the 
sea. 

Like  a  sunbeam  the  pickerel  glides  through  the 

pool, 
And  the  spotted  trout  sleeps  where  the  water 

is  cool, 

Or  darts  from  his  shelter  of  rock  and  of  root 
At  the  beaver's  quick  plunge,  or  the  angler's 

pursuit. 

And  ours  are  the  mountains,  which  awfully  rise, 
Till  they  rest  their  green  heads  on  the  blue  of 

the  skies  ; 

And  ours  are  the  forests  unwasted,  unshorn, 
Save  where  the  wild  path  of  the  tempest  is  torn. 

And  though  savage  and  wild  be  this  climate  oi 

ours, 

And  brief  be  our  season  of  fruits  and  of  flowers, 
Far  dearer  the  blast  round  our  mountains  which 

raves, 
Than  the  sweet  summer  zephyr  which  breathes 

over  slaves ! 

Hurrah  for  Vermont !     For  the  land  which  we 

till 
Must  have  sons  to  defend  her  from  valley  and 

hill ; 
Leave  the  harvest  to  rot  on  the  fields  where  it 

grows, 
And  the  reaping  of  wheat  for  the  reaping  of 

foes. 

From  far  Michiscom's  wild  valley,  to  where 
Poosoonsuck  steals  down  from  his  wood-circled 

lair, 

From  Shocticook  River  to  Lutterlock  town  — 
Ho  —  all   to   the   rescue !      Vermonters,   come 

down ! 

Come  York  or  come  Hampshire,  come  traitors 

or  knaves, 
If  ye  rule  o'er  our  land,  ye  shall  rule  o'er  our 

graves ; 

Our  vow  is  recorded  —  our  banner  unfurled, 
In  the  name  of  Vermont  we  defy  all  the  world  I 


TO  A  POETICAL  TRIO  IN  THE  CITY  OF 
GOTHAM 

[This  jeu  d"1  esprit  was  written  by  Whittier  in 
1832.  The  notes  are  his  own.  The  authorship 
was  not  discovered  till  after  his  death.] 

Three  wise  men  of  Gotham 
Went  to  sea  in  a  bowl. 

BARDS  of  the  island  city  !  —  where  of  old 
The  Dutchman  smoked  beneath  his  favorite 
tree, 

And  the  wild  eyes  of  Indian  hunters  rolled 
On  Hudson  plunging  in  th<>  Tappaan  Zee, 

Scene  of  Stuy vesant's  might  and  chivalry, 


POEMS    PRINTED   IN    THE   -LIFE   OF   WHITTIER" 


And  Knickerbocker's  fame,  —  I  have  made 

bold 

To  com<j  before  ye,  at  the  present  time, 
And  reason  with  ye  in  the  way  of  rhyme. 

Time  was  when  poets  kept  the  quiet  tenor 
Of  their  green  pathway  through  th'  Arcadian 

vale,  — 

Chiming  their  music  in  the  low  sweet  manner 
Of  song-birds  warbling  to  the  k  k  Sof  t  feouth  '  ' 

gale  ; 

Wooing  the  Muse  where  gentle  zephyrs  fan  her, 
Where  all  is  peace  and  earth  may  not  assail  ; 
Telling  of  lutes  and  flowers,  of  love  and  fear, 
Of  shepherds,  sheep  and  lambs,  and  "  such  small 
deer." 

But  ye  !  lost  recreants  —  straying  from  the  green 

And  pleasant  vista  of  your  early  time, 
With  broken  lutes  and  crownless  skulls  —  are 

seen 
Spattering    your    neighbors   with   abhorrent 

slime 

Of  the  low  world's  pollution  !  *    Ye  have  been 
So  long  apostates  from  the  Heaven  of  rhyme, 
That  of  the  Muses,  every  mother's  daughter 
Blushes  to  own  such  graceless  bards  e'er  sought 
her. 

"  Hurrah  for  Jackson  !  "  is  the  music  now 
Which  your  cracked  lutes  have  learned  alone 
to  utter, 

As,  crouching  in  Corruption's  shadow  low, 
Ye  daily  sweep  them  for  your  bread  and  but- 


Cheered  by  the  applauses  of  the  friends  who 

show 

Their  heads  above  the  offal  of  the  gutter, 
And,  like  the  trees  which  Orpheus  moved   at 

will, 
Reel,  as  in  token  of  your  matchless  skill  ! 

Thou  son  of  Scotia  !  3  —  nursed  beside  the  grave 
Of  the  proud  peasant-minstrel,  and  to  whom 

The  wild  muse  of  thy  mountain-dwelling  gave 
A  portion  of  its  spirit,  —  if  the  tomb 

Could  burst  its  silence,  o'er  the  Atlantic's  wave, 
To  thee  his  voice  of  stern  rebuke  would  come, 

Who  dared  to  waken  with  a  master's  hand 

The  lyre  of  freedom  in  a  fettered  land. 

And  thou  !  —  once  treading  firmly  the  proud 

deck 
O'er  which   thy  country's  honored   flag  was 

sleeping, 
Calmly  in  peace,  or  to  the  hostile  beck 

1  Editors  of  the  Mercantile  Advertiser  and  the  Even 
ing  Post  in  New  York,  —  the  present  organs  of  Jack- 
aonism. 

*  Perhaps,  after  all,  they  get  something  better  ;  inas 
much  as  the  Heroites  have  for  some  time  had  exclusive 
possession  of  the  Hall  of  St.  Tammany,  and  we  have 
the  authority  of  Hallerk  that 

**  There  's  a  barrel  of  porter  in  TammiTiy  hall 
And  the  Bucktails  are  swigging  it  all  the  night  long." 

8  Jamea  Lawson,  Esq,  ,  of  the  Mercantile.      A  fine, 


Of  coming  foes  in  starry  splendor  sweeping,  — 
Thy  graphic  tales  of  battle  or  of  wreck, 

Or  lone  night-watch  in  middle  ocean  keeping. 
Have  mode  thy  "Leisure  Hours  "  more  prized 

by  far 
Than  those  now  spent  in  Party's  wordy  war.* 

And  last,  not  least,  thou !  —  now  nurtured  in 

the  land 

Where  thy  bold-hearted  fathers  long  ago 
Rocked  Freedom's  cradle,  till  its  infant  hand 

Strangled  the  serpent  fierceness  of  its  foe,  — 
Thou,   whose  clear    brow    in  early  time  wag 

fanned 

By  the  soft  airs  which  from  Castaliaflow  !  5  — 
Where  art  thou  now  ?    feeding   with   hickory 

ladle 
The  cui-s  of  Faction  with  thy  daily  twaddle  ! 

Men  have  looked  up  to  thee,  as  one  to  be 
A  portion  of  our  glory  ;  and  the  light 

And  fairy  hands  of  woman  beckoned  thee 
On  to  thy  laurel  guerdon  ;  and  those  bright 

And  gifted  spirits,  whom  the  broad  blue  sea 
Hath   shut  from   thy  communion,  bid   thee, 
"  Write," 

Like  John  of  Patmos.     Is  all  this  forgotten, 

For  Yankee  brawls  and  Carolina  cotton  ? 

Are  autumn's  rainbow  hues  no  longer  seen  ? 
Flows  the  "  Green  River ':  through  its  vale 

no  more  ? 
Steals   not   thy    "Rivulet"    by  its    banks  of 

green  ? 
Wheels  upward  from    its  dark  and    sedgy 

shore 
Thy  "Water    Fowl"    no  longer? —  that    the 

mean 

And  vulgar  strife,  the  ranting  and  the  roar 
Extempore,  like  Bottom's  should  be  thine,  — 
Thou  feeblest  truck-horse  in  the  Hero's  line  ! 

Lost  trio  !  — turn  ye  to  the  minstrel  pride 
Of  classic  Britain.     Even  effeminate  Moore 

Has  cast  the  wine-cup  and  the  lute  aside 
For  Erin  and  O'Connell  ;  and  before 

His  country's  altar,  Bulwer  breasts  the  tide 
Of  old  oppression.     Sadly  brooding  o'er 

The  fate  of  heroes  struggling  to  be  free, 

Even  Campbell  speaks  for  Poland.     Where  are 
yef 

Hirelings  of  traitors  !  — know  ye  not  that  men 
Are  rousing  up  around  ye  to  retrieve 

Our  country's  honor,  which  too  long  has  been 
Debased  by  those  for  whom  ye  daily  weave 

warm-hearted  Scotchman,  who,  having  unfortunately 
blundered  into  Jacksonism,  is  wondering  "  how  i'  th« 
Deil's  name  "  he  got  there.  He  is  the  author  of  a  vol 
ume  entitled  Tales  and  Sketches,  and  of  the  tragedy  of 
Giordano. 

4  William  Leggett,  Esq.,  of  the  Post,  a  gentleman  of 
good  taJpnts,  favorably  known  as  the  editor  of  the  New 
York  Critic,  etc. 

5  Williiim  C.  Bryant,  Esq.,  well  known  to  the  public 
at  large  as  a  poet  of  acknowledged  excellence ;  and  a* 
a  very  dull  editor  to  the  people  of  New  York. 


512 


APPENDIX 


Your  web  of  fustian  ;    that  from  tongue  and 

pen 

Of  those  who  o'er  our  tarnished  honor  grieve, 
Of  the  pure-hearted  and  the  gifted,  come 
Hourly  the  tokens  of  your  master's  doom  ? 

Turn  from    their    ruin !      Dash    your    chains 

aside ! 

Stand  up  like  men  for  Liberty  and  Law, 
And  free  opinion.     Check  Corruption's  pride, 
Soothe  the  loud  storm  of  fratricidal  war,  — 
And  the  bright  honors  of  your  eventide 
Shall  share  the  glory  which  your  morning 

saw ; 

The  patriot's  heart  shall  gladden  at  your  name, 
Ye  shall  be  blessed  with,  and  not  "  damned  to 
fame  " ! 


ALBUM   VERSES 

[Written  in  the  album  of  May  Pillsbury  of 
West  Newbury,  in  the  fall  of  1838,  when 
Whittier  was  at  home  on  a  visit  from  Phila 
delphia,  where  he  was  engaged  in  editorial 
work  ] 

PARDON  a  stranger  hand  that  gives 

Its  impress  to  these  gilded  leaves. 

As  one  who  graves  in  idle  mood 

An  idler's  name  on  rock  or  wood, 

So  in  a  careless  hour  I  claim 

A  page  to  leave  my  humble  name. 

Accept  it ;  and  when  o'er  my  head 

A  Pennsylvanian  sky  is  spread, 

And  but  in  dreams  my  eye  looks  back 

On  broad  and  lovely  Merrimac, 

And  on  my  ear  no  longer  breaks 

The  murmuring  music  which  it  makes, 

When  but  in  dreams  I  look  again 

On  Salisbury  beach  —  Grasshopper  plain  — 

Or  Powow  stream  —  or  Amesbury  mills, 

Or  old  Crane  neck,  or  Pipestave  hills, 

Think  of  me  then  as  one  who  keeps, 

Where  Delaware's  broad  current  sweeps, 

And  down  its  rugged  limestone-bed 

The  Schuylkill's  arrowy  flight  is  sped, 

Deep  in  his  heart  the  scenes  which  grace 

And  glorify  his  "  native  place  ;  " 

Loves  every  spot  to  childhood  dear, 

And  leaves  his  heart  "  untraveled  "  here  ; 

Longs,  midst  the  Dutchman's  kraut  and  greens, 

For  pumpkin-pie  and  pork  and  beans, 

And  sighs  to  think  when,  sweetly  near, 

The  soft  piano  greets  his  ear, 

That  the  fair  hands  which,  small  and  white, 

Glance  on  its  ivory  polished  light, 

Have  ne'er  an  Indian  pudding  made, 

Nor  fashioned  rye  and  Indian  bread. 

And  oh  !  whene'er  his  footsteps  turn, 

Whatever  stars  above  him  burn, 

Though  dwelling  where  a  Yankee's  name 

Is  coupled  with  reproach  or  shame, 

Still  true  to  his  New  England  birth, 

Still  faithful  to  his  home  and  hearth, 

Even  'midst  the  scornful  stranger  band 

His  boast  shall  be  of  YANKEE  LAND. 


WHAT  STATE  STREET  SAID  TO  SOUTH 
CAROLINA,  AND  WHAT  SOUTH  CARO 
LINA  SAID  TO  STATE  STREET 

[Published  in  Thf  National  Era,  May  22, 1851.] 

MUTTERING  "fine  upland  staple,"  " prime  Sea 
Island  finer," 

With  cotton  bales  pictured  on  either  retina, 

"  Your  pardon  !  "  said  State  Street  to  South 
Carolina  ; 

"•  We  feel  and  acknowledge  your  laws  are  di 
viner 

Than  any  promulgated  by  the  thunders  of 
Sinai ! 

Sorely  pricked  in  the  sensitive  conscience  of 
business 

We  OAVII  and  repent  of  our  sins  of  remissness : 

Our  honor  we  've  yielded,  our  words  we  have 
swallowed ; 

And  quenching  the  lights  which  our  forefathers 
followed, 

And  turning  from  graves  by  their  memories 
hallowed, 

With  teeth  on  ball-cartridge,  and  finger  on  trig 
ger, 

Reversed  Boston  Notions,  and  sent  back  a  nig^ 
ger!" 

"  Get  away  i  "  cried  the  Chivalry,  busy  a-drum- 

ming, 
And  fifing  and  drilling,  and  such  Quattle-bum- 

ming ; 
"With  your  April-fool  slave  hunt!    Just  wait 

till  December 
Shall  see  your  new  Senator  stalk  through   ,ha 

Chamber, 

And  Puritan  heresy  prove  neither  dumb  noi 
Blind  in  that  pestilent  Anakim,  Simmer!  " 


A  FREMONT  CAMPAIGN  SONG 

SOUND  now  the  trumpet  warningly ! 
The  storm  is  rolling  nearer, 
The  hour  is  striking  clearer, 
In  the  dusky  dome  of  sky. 
If  dark  and  wild  the  morning  be, 
A  darker  morn  before  U3 
Shall  fling  its  shadows  o'er  us 

If  we  let  the  hour  go  by. 
Sound  we  then  the  trumpet  chorus  ! 
Sound  the  onset  wild  and  iiigh ! 
Country  and  Liberty ! 
Freedom  and  Victory ! 
These  words  shall  be  our  cry,  — 
Fre'mont  and  Victory ! 

Sound,  sound  the  trumpet  fearlessly  1 
Each  arm  its  vigor  lending, 
Bravely  with  wrong  contending, 
And  shouting  Freedom's  cry  ! 
The  Kansas  homes  stand  cheerlessly, 
The  sky  with  flame  is  ruddy, 
The  prairie  turf  is  bloody, 

Where  the  brave  and  gentle  die. 


POEMS    PRINTED    IN   THE   "LIFE   OF   WHITTIER "         513 


Sound  the  trumpet  stern  and  steady  ! 
Sound  the  trumpet  strong  and  high  ! 

Country  and  Liberty  ! 

Freedom  and  Victory ! 
These  words  shall  be  our  cry,  — 

Fre'mout  and  Victory ! 

Sound  now  the  trumpet  cheerily  ! 
Nor  dream  of  Heaven's  forsaking 
The  issue  of  its  making, 

That  Right  with  Wrong  must  try. 
The  cloud  that  hung  so  drearily 
The  Northern  Avinds  are  breaking  ; 
The  Northern  Lights  are  shaking 

Their  fire-Hags  in  the  sky. 
Sound  the  signal  of  awaking  ; 
Sound  the  onset  wild  and  high  ! 
Country  and  Liberty ! 
Freedom  and  Victory  I 
These  words  shall  be  our  cry,  — 
Fremont  and  Victory ! 

THE   QUAKERS   ARE   OUT 

[A  campaign  song  written  to  be  sung  at  s 
Republican  Mass  Meeting  held  in  Newbury- 
port,  Mass.,  October  11,  I860.] 

NOT  vainly  we  waited  and  counted  the  hours, 

The  buds  of  our  hope  have  all  burst  into  flowers. 

No  room  for  misgiving — no  loop-hole  of 
doubt,  — 

We  've  heard  from  the  Keystone !  The  Qua 
kers  are  out. 

The  plot  has  exploded  —  we  've  found  out  the 

trick  ; 
The  bribe  goes  a-begging ;  the  fusion  won't 

stick. 
When  the  Wide-awake  lanterns  are  shining 

about, 
The  rogues  stay  at  home,  and  the  true  men  are 

out! 

The  good  State  has  broken  the  cords  for  her 

spun  ; 

Her  oil-springs  and  water  won't  fuse  into  one  ; 
The  Dutchman  has  seasoned  with  Freedom  his 

krout, 
And  slow,  late,  but  certain,  the  Quakers  are 

out! 

Give  the  flags  to  the  winds !  set  the  hills  all 

aflame  ! 
Make  way  for  the  man  with  the   Patriarch's 


name  I 
'  with  n 
For  Lincoln  goes  in,  when  the  Quakers  are  out ! 


Away  with  misgiving  —  away  with  all  doubt, 
Linct 


A   LEGEND   OF   THE   LAKE 

[This  poem,  originally  printed  in  the  "  At 
lantic  Monthly,"  was  withheld  from  publica 
tion  in  his  volumes  by  Mr.  Whittier,  in  defer 
ence  to  living  relatives  of  the  hero  of  the  poem. 
Death  finally  removed  the  restriction.] 


SHOULD  you  go  to  Centre  Harbor, 
As  haply  you  some  time  may, 

Sailing  up  the  Winnepesaukee 
From  the  hills  of  Alton  Bay,  — 

Into  the  heart  of  the  highlands, 

Into  the  north  wind  free, 
Through  the  rising  and  vanishing  island* 

Over  the  mountain  sea,  — 

To  the  little  hamlet  lying 

White  in  its  mountain  fold, 
Asleep  by  the  lake  and  dreaming 

A  dream  that  is  never  told,  — 

And  in  the  Red  Hill's  shadow 
Your  pilgrim  home  you  make, 

Where  the  chambers  open  to  sunrise, 
The  mountains,  and  the  lake,  — 

If  the  pleasant  picture  wearies, 
As  the  fairest  sometimes  will, 

And  the  weight  of  the  hills  lies  on  you 
Arid  the  water  is  all  too  still,  — 

If  in  vain  the  peaks  of  Gunstock 

Redden  with  sunrise  fire, 
And  the  sky  and  the  purple  mountains 

And  the  sunset  islands  tire,  — 

If  you  turn  from  in-door  thrumming 
And  the  clatter  of  bowls  without, 

And  the  folly  that  goes  on  its  travels, 
Bearing  the  city  about,  — 

And  the  cares  you  left  behind  you 
Come  hunting  along  your  track, 

As  Blue-Cap  in  German  fable 
Rode  on  the  traveller's  pack,  — 

Let  me  tell  you  a  tender  story 

Of  one  who  is  now  no  more, 
A  tale  to  hamit  like  a  spirit 

The  Winnepesaukee  shore,  — 

Of  one  who  was  brave  and  gentle, 
And  strong  for  manly  strife, 

Riding  with  cheering  and  music 
Into  the  tourney  of  life. 

Faltering  and  failing  midway 
In  the  Tempter's  subtle  snare, 

The  chains  of  an  evil  habit 
He  bowed  himself  to  bear. 

Over  his  fresh  young  manhood 
The  bestial  veil  was  flung,  — 

The  curse  of  the  wine  of  Circe, 
The  spell  her  weavers  sung. 

Yearly  did  hill  and  lakeside 

Their  summer  idyls  frame  ; 
Alone  in  his  darkened  dwelling 

He  hid  his  face  for  shame. 

The  music  of  life's  great  marches 
Sounded  for  him  in  vain ; 


APPENDIX 


The  voices  of  human  duty 
Smote  on  his  ear  like  pain. 

In^vain  over  island  and  water 
The  curtains  of  sunset  swung  ; 

In  vain  on  the  beautiful  mountains 
The  pictures  of  God  were  hung. 

The  wretched  years  crept  onward, 

Each  sadder  than  the  last ; 
All  the  bloom  of  life  fell  from  him, 

All  the  freshness  and  greenness  past. 

But  deep  in  his  heart  forever 

And  unprofaned  he  kept 
The  love  of  his  saintly  mother, 

Who  in  the  graveyard  slept. 

His  house  had  no  pleasant  pictures ; 

Its  comfortless  walls  were  bare  : 
But  the  riches  of  earth  and  ocean 

Could  not  purchase  his  mother's  cnair. 

The  old  chair,  quaintly  carven, 
With  oaken  arms  outspread, 

Whereby,  in  the  long  gone  twilights, 
His  childish  prayers  were  said. 

For  thence  in  his  long  night  watches, 

By  moon  or  starlight  dim, 
A  face  full  of  love  and  pity 

And  tenderness  looked  on  him. 

And  oft,  as  the  grieving  presence 

feat  in  his  mother's  chair, 
The  groan  of  his  self -upbraiding 

Grew  into  wordless  prayer. 

At  last,  in  the  moonless  midnight, 
The  summoning  angel  came, 

Severe  in  his  pity,  touching 

The  house  with  fingers  of  flame. 

The  red  light  flashed  from  its  windows 
And  flared  from  its  sinking  roof  ; 

And  baffled  and  awed  before  it 
The  villagers  stood  aloof. 

They  shrank  from  the  falling  rafters. 
They  turned  from  the  furnace  glare  ; 

But  its  tenant  cried,  "  God  help  me  ! 
I  must  save  my  mother's  chair." 

Under  the  blazing  portal, 

Over  the  floor  of  fire, 
He  seemed,  in  the  terrible  splendor, 

A  martyr  on  his  pyre. 

In  his  face  the  mad  flames  smote  him, 
And  stung  him  on  either  side  ; 

But  he  clung  to  the  sacred  relic,  — 
By  his  mother's  chair  he  died  ! 

O  mother,  with  human  yearnings  ! 

0  saint,  by  the  altar  stairs  ! 
Shall  not  the  dear  God  give  thee 

The  child  of  thy  many  prayers  ? 


0  Christ !  by  whom  the  loving, 
Though  erring,  are  forgiven, 

Hast  thou  for  hin:  no  refuge, 
No  quiet  place  in  heaven  ? 

Give  palms  to  thy  strong  martyrs, 
And  crown  thy  saints  with  gold, 

But  let  the  mother  welcome 
Her  lost  one  to  thy  fold  ! 


LETTER   TO   LUCY  LARCOM 

25th  3d  mo.,  1866. 

BELIEVE  me,  Lucy  Larcom,  it  gives  me  real 

sorrow 
That  I  cannot  take  my  carpet-bag  and  go  to 

town  to-morrow  ; 
But   I'm    "snow-bound,"   and  cold   on  cold, 

like  layers  of  an  onion, 
Have  piled  my  back  and  weighed  me  down  as 

with  the  pack  of  Bunyan. 

The  north-east  wind  is  damper  and  the  north 
west  wind  is  colder, 
Or  else  the  matter  simply  is  that  I  am  growing 

older. 
And  then  I  dare  nut  trust  a  moon  seen  over  one's 

left  shoulder, 
As  I  saw  this  with  slender  horns  caught  in  a 

west  hill-pine, 

As  on  a  Stamboul  minaret  curves  the  arch-im 
postor's  sign,  — 
So  I  must  stay  in  Amesbury,  and  let  you  go 

your  way, 
And  guess  what  colors  greet  your  eyes,  what 

shapes  your  steps  delay  ; 
What  pictured  forms  of   heathen  lore,  of  god 

and  goddess  please  you, 
What  idol  graven  images  you  bend  your  wicked 

knees  to. 
But  why  should  I  of  evil  dream,  well  knowing 

at  your  head  goes 
That  flower  of  Christian  womanhood,  our  dear 

good  Anna  Meadows. 
She  '11  be  discreet,  1  'm  sure,  although  once,  in 

a  freak  romantic, 
She  flung  the  Doge's  bridal  ring,  and  married 

"  The  Atlantic  "  ! 
And  spite  of  all  appearances,  like  the  woman  in 

a  shoe, 
She's  got  so  many  "Young  Folks"  now,  she 

don't  know  what  to  do. 
But  I  must  say  I  think  it  strange  that  thee  and 

Mrs.  ISpaulding, 
Whose  lives  with  Calvin's  five-rared  creed  have 

been  so  tightly  walled  in, 
Should  quit  your  Puritan  homes,  and  take  the 

pains  to  go 
So  far,  with  malicp  aforethought,  to  "  walk  in 

a  vain  show  "  ! 
Did  Emmons  hunt  for  pictures  ?   Was  Jonathan 

Edwards  peeping 
Into  the  chambers  of  imagery,  with  maids  for 

Tammuz  weeping  ? 
Ah  wTell !  the  times  are  sadly  changed    and  I 

myself  am  feeling 


POEMS   PRINTED   IN   THE   "LIFE  OF  WHITTIER "         515 


The  wicked  world  my  Quaker  coat  from  off  my 

shoulders  peeling. 
God  grant  that  in  the  strange  new  sea  of  change 

wherein  we  swim, 
We  still  may  keep  the  good  old  plank,  of  simple 

faith  in  Him ! 


LINES    ON    LEAVING    APPLEDORE 
[Sent  in  a  letter  to  Celia  Thaxter.J 

UNDER  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  the  light 
Died  out  upon  the  waters,  like  a  smile 
Chased  from  a  face    by  grief.     Following  the 

flight 

Of  a  lone  bird  that,  scudding  with  the  breeze, 
Dipped  its  crank  wing  in  leaden-colored  seas, 
I  saw  in  sunshine  lifted,  clear  and  bright, 
On  the  horizon's  rim  the  Fortunate  Isle 
That  claims  thee  as  its  fair  inhabitant, 
And  glad  of  heart  I  whispered,  kk  Be  to  her, 
Bird  of  the  summer  sea,  my  messenger  ; 
Tell  her,  if  Heaven  a  fervent  prayer  will  grant, 
This  light  that  falls  her  island  home  above 
Making  its  slopes  of  rock  and  greenness  gay, 
A  partial  glory  midst  surrounding  gray, 
Shall  prove  an  earnest  of  our  Fathers  love, 
More  and  more  shining  to  the  perfect  day." 


MRS.   CHOATE'S    HOUSE-WARMING 

["  His  washerwoman,  Mrs.  Choate,  by  indus 
try  and  thrift  had  been  enabled  to  build  for 
her  family  a  comfortable  house.  When  it  was 
i'eady  for  occupancy,  there  was  a  house-warm 
ing',  attended  by  all  the  neighbors,  who  brought 
substantial  tokens  of  their  good-will,  including 
all  the  furniture  needed  in  her  new  parlor. 
Mr.  Whittier's  hand  was  to  be  seen  in  the 
whole  movement ;  he  was  present  at  the  festiv 
ity,  and  made  a  little  speech,  congratulating 
Mrs.  Choate  upon  her  well-deserved  success  in 
life,  and  said  he  would  read  a  piece  of  machine 
poetry  which  had  been  intrusted  to  him  for  the 
occasion.  These  are  the  lines,  which  were,  of 
course,  of  his  own  composition."  — S.  T.  PICK- 
ABD,  Life  and  Letters  of  John  Greenleaf  Whit- 
tier.] 

OF  rights  and  of  wrongs 
Let  the  feminine  tongues 

Talk  on  —  none  forbid  it. 
Our  hostess  best  knew 
What  her  hands  found  to  do, 

Asked  no  questions,  but  DID  IT. 

Here  the  lesson  of  work, 
Which  so  many  ?olks  shirk, 

Is  so  plain  all  may  learn  it ; 
Each  brick  in  this  dwelling, 
Each  timber  is  telling, 

If  you  want  a  home,  EARN  IT. 


The  question  of  labor 

Is  solved  by  our  neighbor, 

The  old  riddle  guessed  out : 
The  wisdom  sore  needed, 
The  truth  long  unheeded, 

Her  flat-iron  's  pressed  out ! 

Thanks,  then,  to  Kate  Choate  ! 
Let  the  idle  take  note 

What  their  fingers  were  made  for 
She,  cheerful  and  jolly, 
Worked  on  late  and  early, 

And  bought  —  what  she  paid  for  J 

Never  vainly  repining, 
Nor  begging,  nor  whining  ; 

The  morning-star  twinkles 
On  no  heart  that  's  lighter 
As  she  makes  the  world  whiter 

And  smooths  out  its  wrinkles. 

So,  long  life  to  Kate  ! 
May  her  heirs  have  to  wait 

Till  they  're  gray  in  attendance  ; 
And  her  nat-iron  press  on, 
Still  teaching  its  lesson 

Of  brave  independence ! 


AN    AUTOGRAPH 

[Written  for  an  old  friend,  Rev.  S.  H.  Em- 
erv,  of  Quincy,  111.,  who  revisited  Whittier  in 
1868.] 

THE  years  that  since  we  met  have  flown 
Leave  as  they  found  me,  still  alone  : 
No  wife,  nor  child,  nor  grandchild  dear, 
Are  mine  the  heart  of  age  to  cheer. 
More  favored  thou,  with  hair  less  gray 
Than  mine,  canst  let  thy  fancy  stray 
To  where  thy  little  Constance  sees 
The  prairie  ripple  in  the  breeze  ; 
For  one  like  her  to  lisp  thy  name 
Is  better  than  the  voice  of  fame. 


TO   LUCY    LARCOM 

3d  mo.   1870, 


PRAY  give  the  "  Atlantic  " 
A  brief  unpedantic 
Review  of  Miss  Phelps'  book, 
Which  teaches  and  helps  folk 
To  deal  with  the  offenders 
In  love  which  surrenders 
All  pride  unforgiving, 
The  lost  one  receiving 
With  truthful  believing 
That  she  like  all  others, 
Our  sisters  and  brothers, 
Is  only  a  sinner 
Whom  God's  love  within  her 
Can  change  to  the  whiteness 
Of  heaven's  own  brightness. 
For  who  shall  see  tarnish 
If  He  sweep  and  garnish  ? 


APPENDIX 


When  He  is  the  cleanser 
Shall  we  dare  to  censure  ? 
Say  to  Fields,  if  he  ask  of  it, 
I  can't  take  the  task  of  it. 

P.  S.  —  For  myself,  if  I  'm  able, 
And  half  comfortable, 
I  shall  run  for  the  seashore 
To  some  place  as  before, 
Where  blunt  we  at  least  find 
The  teeth  of  the  East  wind, 
And  spring  does  not  tarry- 
As  it  does  at  Amesbury  ; 
But  where  it  will  be  to 
I  cannot  yet  see  to. 


A    FAREWELL 

[Written  for   Mr.  and  Mrs.  Claflin  as  they 
were  about  to  sail  to  Europe.] 

WHAT  shall  I  say,  dear  friends,  to  whom  I  owe 
The  choicest  blessings,  dropping  from  the  hands 
Of  trustful  love  and  friendship,  as  you  go 
Forth  on  your  journey  to  those  older  lands, 
By  saint  and  sage  and  bard  and  hero  trod  ? 
Scarcely  the  simple  farewell  of  the  Friends 
Sufficeth  ;  after  you  my  full  heart  sends 
Such  benediction  as  the  pilgrim  hears 
Where  the  Greek  faith  its  golden  dome  uprears, 
From  Crimea's  roses  to  Archangel  snows, 
The  fittest  prayer  of  parting  :  u  Go  with  God !  " 


ON    A    FLY-LEAF    OF   LONGFELLOW'S 
POEMS 

[Written  at  the  Asquam  House  in  the  sum 
mer  of  1882.] 

HUSHED  now  the  SAveet  consoling  tongue 
Of  him  whose  lyre  the  Muses  strung  ; 
His  last  low  swan-song  has  been  sung  ! 

His  last !     And  ours,  dear  friend,  is  near ; 
As  clouds  that  rake  the  mountains  here, 
We  too  shall  pass  and  disappear. 

Yet  howsoever  changed  or  tost, 
Not  even  a  wreath  of  mist  is  lost, 
No  atom  can  itself  exhaust. 

So  shall  the  soul's  superior  force 
Live  on  and  run  its  endless  course 
In  God's  unlimited  universe. 

And  we,  whose  brief  reflections  seem 

To  fade  like  clouds  from  lake  and  stream, 

Shall  brighten  in  a  holier  beam. 


SAMUEL   E.   SEWALL 

[An  inscription  for  a  marble  bust,  modelled 
by  Anne  Whitney,  and  placed  in  the  Gary  Li 
brary,  Lexington,  Mass  ,  May,  1884.] 


LIKE  that  ancestral  judge  who  bore  his  name, 
Faithful  to  Freedom  and  to  Truth,  he  gave, 

When  all  the  air  was  hot  with  wrath  and  blame, 
His  youth  and  manhood  to  the  fettered  slave. 

And  never  Woman  in  her  suffering  saw 
A  helper  tender,  wise,  and  brave  as  he  ; 

Lifting  her  burden  of  unrighteous  law, 
He  shamed  the  boasts  of  ancient  chivalry. 

Noiseless  as  light  that  melts  the  darkness  is, 
He  wrought  as  duty  led  and  honor  bid, 

No  trumpet  heralds  victories  like  his,  — 
The  unselfish  worker  in  his  work  is  hid. 

LINES   WRITTEN    IN   AN   ALBUM 

[The  album  belonged  to  the  grandson  of 
Whittier's  life-long  friend,  Theodore  D.  Weld, 
and  the  lines  were  written  in  April,  1>84.] 

WHAT  shall  I  wish  him  ?     Strength  and  health 
May  be  abused,  and  so  may  wealth. 
Even  fame  itself  may  come  to  be 
But  wearying  notoriety. 

What  better  can  I  ask  than  this  ?  — 
A  life  of  brave  unselfishness, 
Wisdom  for  council,  eloquence 
For  Freedom's  need,  for  Truth's  defence, 
The  championship  of  all  that 's  good, 
The  manliest  faith  in  womanhood, 
The  steadfast  friendship  changing  not 
With  change  of  time  or  place  or  lot, 
Hatred  of  sin,  but  not  the  less 
A  heart  of  pitying  tenderness 
And  charity,  that,  suffering  long, 
Shames  the  wrong-doer  from  his  wrong  : 
One  wish  expresses  all  —  that  he 
May  even  as  his  grandsire  be  ! 

A    DAY'S   JOURNEY 

[Written  in  1886,  for  the  tenth  anniversary 
of  the  wedding1  of  his  niece.] 

AFTER  your  pleasant  morning  travel 

You  pause  as  at  a  wayside  inn, 
And  take  with  grateful  hearts  your  breakfast 

Though  served  in  dishes  all  of  TIN. 

Then  go,  while  years  as  hours  are  counted, 

Until  the  dial's  hand  at  noon 
Invites  you  to  a  dinner  table 

Garnished  with  SILVER  fork  and  spoon. 

And  when  the  vesper  bell  to  supper 

Is  calling,  and  the  day  is  old, 
May  love  transmute  the  tin  of  morning 

And  noonday's  silver  into  GOLD. 

A   FRAGMENT 

[Found  among-  Mr.  Whittier's  papers,  in  his 
handwriting,  but  undated.] 


NOTES 


THE  dreadful  burden  of  our  sins  we  feel, 

The   pain  of   wounds  which  Thou  alone  canst 

heal, 
To  whom  our  weakness  is  our  strong  appeal. 

From  the  black  depths,  the  ashes,  and  the  dross 
Of  our  waste  lives,  we  reach  out  to  Thy  cross, 
And  by  its  fullness  measure  all  our  loss  ! 

That  holy  sign  reveals  Thee  :  throned  above 
No  Moloch  sits,  no  false,  vindictive  Jove  — 
Thou  art  our  Father,  and  Thy  name  is  Love  ! l 


III.  NOTES 

Page  5.     Sole  Pythoness  of  Ancient  Lynn. 

The  Pythoness  of  ancient  Lynn  was  the  re 
doubtable  Moll  Pitcher,  who  lived  under  the 
shadow  of  High  Rock  in  that  town,  and  was 
sought  far  and  wide  for  her  supposed  powers  of 
divination.  She  died  about  1S10.  Mr.  Upham, 
in  his  Salem  Witchcraft,  has  given  an  account 
of  her. 

Page  12.     St.  John. 

[Dr.  Francis  Parkman  has  given  a  detailed 
account  of  this  episode  in  New  England  history 
in  The  Feudal  Chiefs  of  Acadia,  published  in 
The  Atlantic  Monthly,  January,  February,  1893. 
The  same  series  of  incidents  forms  the  basis  of 
the  romance  by  Mrs.  Mary  Hartwell  Gather- 
wood,  entitled  The  Lady  of  Fort  St.  John.] 

Page  21.     The  New  Wife  and  the  Old. 

[General  Moulton's  mansion  may  still  be  seen 
[1894]  from  the  train,  a  hip-roofed  house,  stand 
ing  on  the  right-hand  side  of  the  track,  just  be 
fore  reaching  the  Hampton  station  as  one  comes 
from  Boston.  Twenty-five  years  after  writing 
the  poem,  Mr.  Whittier  received  a  letter  from 
a  lady  who  had  been  spending  a  summer  in  the 
Moultoii  house,  in  which  she  said  :  'k  I  remem 
ber  my  mother's  repeating  to  me  her  recollec 
tions  of  the  exorcising  of  the  ghosts  of  General 
Moulton  and  his  wife  by  a  parson  Milton  or 
Bodily  [the  Rev.  John  Boddily,  who  died  in 
1802,  and  is  buried  in  a  Newburyport  burying- 
ground].  My  grandfather  Whipple  being  ab 
sent,  the  servants  (several  of  them  had  been 
slaves  in  Newport)  insisted  that  General  Moul 
ton  and  his  wife  disturbed  the  house  so  much  at 
night,  he  thumping  with  his  cane,  and  her  dress 
k  a-rustling  up  and  down  the  stairs,'  that  nothing 
could  allay  their  terror  ;  and  one  Mrs.  Williams, 
the  housekeeper,  persisted  so  strongly  that  she 
frequently  saw  them  both,  he  in  a  snuff -colored 
suit  and  enormous  wig,  holding  a  gold-headed 
cane,  that  nothing  could  induce  them  to  remain 
in  the  house.  Many  persons  in  the  vicinity  came 
to  the  exorcising,  or  '  laying  the  ghosts  '  as  they 
termed  it.  My  mother  said  the  scene  was  very 
impressive  to  her  as  a  child,  and  she  could  never 

1  This  is  an  alternative  reading  which  has  been  can- 
Celled  :  — 

"  No  lawless  Terror  dwells  in  light  above, 
Cruel  as  Moloch,  deaf  and  false  as  Jove  — 
Thou  art  our  Father,  and  Thy  name  is  Love !  " 


forget  the  white  and  black  servants  and  neigh 
bors,  standing  in  solemn  awe,  and  the  abjuring 
of  the  minister.  The  servants,  I  believe,  never 
afterwards  complained  of  being  disturbed  or  of 
seeing  the  ghosts,  after  this  ceremony." 

In  his  work  on  The  Super  natural  ism  of 
New  England,  published  in  1847,  Mr.  Whittier 
relates  the  legend  of  the  ancient  house.  "  Gen 
eral  Moulton's  house  was  once  burned  in  re 
venge,  it  is  said,  by  the  fiend,  whom  the  former 
had  outwitted.  He  had  agreed,  it  seems,  to 
furnish  the  general  with  a  boot  full  of  gold  and 
silver,  poured  annually  down  the  chimney.  The 
shrewd  Yankee  cut  off  on  one  occasion  the  foot 
of  the  boot,  and  the  Devil  kept  pouring  down 
the  coin  from  the  chimney  top,  in  a  vain  at 
tempt  to  fill  it,  until  the  room  was  literally 
packed  with  the  precious  metal.  When  the 
general  died,  he  was  laid  out,  and  put  in  a  coffin 
as  usual ;  but  on  the  day  of  the  funeral  it  was 
whispered  about  that  his  body  was  missing, 
and  the  neighbors  came  to  the  charitable  con 
clusion  that  the  enemy  had  got  his  own  at 
last."] 

Page  2(5.     Here  the  mighty  Bashaba. 

Bashaba  was  the  name  which  the  Indians  of 
New  England  gave  to  two  or  three  of  their  prin 
cipal  chiefs,  to  whom  all  their  inferior  sagamores 
acknowledged  allegiance.  Passaconaway  seems 
to  have  been  one  of  these  chiefs.  His  residence 
was  at  Pennacook.  (Mass.  Hist.  Coll.,  vol.  iii. 
pp.  21,  22.)  "He 'was  regarded,"  says  Hub- 
bard,  "  as  a  great  sorcerer,  and  his  fame  was 
widely  spread.  It  was  said  of  him  that  he  could 
cause  a  green  leaf  to  grow  in  winter,  trees  to 
dance,  water  to  burn,  etc.  He  was,  undoubt 
edly,  one  of  those  shrewd  and  powerful  men 
whose  achievements  are  always  regarded  by  a 
barbarous  people  as  the  result  of  supernatural 
aid.  The  Indians  gave  to  such  the  names  of 
Po wahs  or  Panisees." 

"  The  Panisees  are  men  of  great  courage  and 
wisdom,  and  to  these  the  Devill  appeareth  more 
familiarly  than  to  others."  —  Winslow's  liela- 
tion. 

Page  28.     Thus  o'er  the  heart  of  Weetamoo. 

"  The  Indians,"  says  Roger  Williams,  "  have 
a  god  whom  they  call  Wetuomanit,  who  pre 
sides  over  the  household." 

Page  29.     Drawn  from  that  great  stone  vase. 

There  are  rocks  in  the  river  at  the  Falls  of 
Amoskeag,  in  the  cavities  of  which,  tradition 
says,  the  Indians  formerly  stored  and  concealed 
their  corn. 

Page  31.     Aulceetamit. 

The  Spring  God.  —  See  Roger  Williams's  Key 
to  the  Indian  Language. 

Page  33.     Mat  ivonck  Icunna-monee. 

We  shall  see  thee  or  her  no  more.  —  See 
Roger  Williams's  Key. 

Page  33 .     So  wanna. 

"  The  Great  South  West  God."  —See  Roger 
Williams's  Observations,  etc. 

Page  34.     As  we  charged  on  Tilly^s  line. 

The  barbarities  of  Count  De  Tilly  after  the 
siege  of  Magdeburg  made  such  an  impression 
upon  our  forefathers  that  the  phrase  "like  old 


APPENDIX 


Tilly  "  is  still  heard  sometimes  in  New  England 
•of  any  piece  of  special  ferocity. 

Page  42.     Afire-mount  in  a  frozen  zone. 

Dr.  Hooker,  who  accompanied  Sir  James 
Ross  in  his  expedition  of  1841,  thus  describes 
the  appearance  of  that  unknown  land  of  frost 
and  fire  which  was  seen  in  latitude  77°  south, 
—  a  stupendous  chain  of  mountains,  the  whole 
mass  of  which,  from  its  highest  point  to  the 
ocean,  was  covered  with  everlasting  snow  and 
ice  :  — 

"  The  water  and  the  sky  were  both  as  blue, 
or  rather  more  intensely  blue,  than  I  have  ever 
seen  them  in  the  tropics,  and  all  the  coast  was 
one  mass  of  dazzlingly  beautiful  peaks  of  snow, 
which,  when  the  sun  approached  the  horizon,  re 
flected  the  most  brilliant  tints  of  golden  yellow 
and  scarlet ;  and  then,  to  see  the  dark  cloud  of 
smoke,  tinged  with  flame,  rising  from  the  vol 
cano  in  a  perfect  unbroken  column,  one  side 
jet-black,  the  other  giving  back  the  oolors  of 
the  sun,  sometimes  turning  off  at  a  right  angle 
by  some  current  of  wind,  and  stretching  many 
miles  to  leeward  !  This  was  a  sight  so  surpass 
ing  everything  that  can  be  imagined,  and  so 
heightened  by  the  consciousness  that  we  had 
penetrated,  und:;r  the  guidance  of  our  com 
mander,  into  regions  far  beyond  what  was  ever 
deemed  practicable,  that  it  caused  a  feeling  of 
awe  to  steal  over  us  at  the  consideration  of  our 
own  comparative  insignificance  and  helpless 
ness,  and  at  the  same  time  an  indescribable 
feeling  of  the  greatness  of  the  Creator  in  the 
works  of  his  hand." 

Page  59.     Here  is  the  place. 

["  The  place  Whittier  had  in  mind  was  his 
birthplace.  There  were  bee-hives  on  the  gar 
den  terrace  near  the  well-sweep,  occupied  per 
haps  by  the  descendants  of  Thomas  Whittier's 
bees.  The  approach  to  the  house  from  over 
the  northern  shoulder  of  Job's  Hill  by  a  path 
that  was  in  constant  use  in  his  boyhood  and 
still  in  existence,  is  accurately  described  in  the 
poem.  The  '  gap  in  the  old  wall '  is  still  to  be 
seen,  and  '  the  stepping  stones  in  the  shallow 
brook  '  are  still  in  use.  His  sister's  garden  was 
down  by  the  brook-side  in  front  of  the  house, 
and  her  daffodils  are  perpetuated  and  may  now 
be  found  in  their  season  each  year  in  that  place. 
The  red-barred  gate,  the  poplars,  the  cattle 
yard  with  '  the  white  horns  tossing  above  the 
wall,'  were  all  part  of  Whittier's  boy  life  on  the 
old  farm.  Even  the  touch  of  '  the  sundown's 
blaze  on  her  window  pane '  is  realistic.  The 
only  place  from  which  the  blaze  of  the  setting 
sun  could  be  seen  reflected  in  the  windows  of 
the  old  mansion  is  from  the  path  so  perfectly 
described.  .  .  .  All  the  story  about  Mary  and 
her  lover  is  wholly  imaginative."  IS.  T.  PICK- 
AKD  in  his  Life  and  Letters  of  John  Greenleaf 
Whittier. 

Page  (57.  Of  the  fast  which  the  good  man  life 
long  kept. 

It  was  the  custom  in  Sewall's  time  for 
churches  and  individuals  to  hold  fasts  whenever 
any  public  or  private  need  suggested  the  fitness  ; 
and  as  state  and  church  were  very  closely  con 


nected,  the  General  Court  sometimes  ordered 
a  fast.  Out  of  this  custom  sprang  the  annual 
fast  in  spring,  now  observed  [IKNh],  but  it  is  A 
comparatively  recent  date.  Such  a  fast  was  or 
dered  on  the  14th  of  January,  K597,  \vhenSewall 
made  his  special  confession  of  guilt  in  condemn 
ing  innocent  persons  under  the  supposition  that 
they  were  witches.  He  is  said  to  have  observed 
the  day  privately  on  each  annual  return  there 
after. 

Page  (58.     His  burden  of  prophecy  yet  remains. 

[In  point  of  fact  the  "  old  man  wise  and 
good,"  "propped  on  his  staff  of  age,"  rras 
forty-five  years  old  when  he  uttered  his  pro 
phecy.] 

Page  69.     The  Red  River  Voyageur. 

[The  church  of  St.  Boniface  was  burned  in 
18(50,  the  year^after  The  Red  River  Voyaqeur 
was  printed.  The  bells  were  broken  in  their 
fall,  and  the  fragments  were  sent  to  London, 
recast  by  their  original  founder,  and  restored 
to  their  place  in  the  new  cathedral  of  St.  Boni 
face.  J 

Page  77.     Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision. 

JFor  a  fuller  account  of  Cobbler  Keezar,  see 
Wnittier'a  paper  on  The  Border  War  of  1708  in 
his  Prose  Works,  volume  II.  pp.  375,  37(5.  Cob 
bler  Keezar  was  wont  to  pitch  his  tent  on  Po 
Hill  and  mend  the  foot-gear  of  the  Amesbury 
people.  The  old  towns  of  Amesbury  and  Salis 
bury,  within  a  few  years  consolidated,  were 
divided  by  the  Powow  River.  The  falls  de 
scribed  in  the  poem  are  concealed  from  view 
now  by  the  factories  and  the  arches  which  span 
the  river.] 

Page  78.     Or  the  stone  of  Dr.  Dee. 

Dr.  John  Dee  was  a  man  of  erudition,  who 
had  an  extensive  museum,  library,  and  appara 
tus  ;  he  claimed  to  be  an  astrologer,  and  had 
acquired  the  reputation  of  having  dealings  with 
evil  spirits,  and  a  mob  was  raised  which  de 
stroyed  the  greater  part  of  his  possessions.  He 
professed  to  raise  the  dead  and  had  a  magic 
crystal.  He  died  a  pauper  in  lb'08. 

Page  81. <    The  Countess. 

[There  is  a  slight  inaccuracy  in  Whittier's 
head  note  to  The  Countess.  According  to  Miss 
Rebecca  I.  Davis,  Gleanings  from  the  Valley  of 
the  Mtrrimac,  where  she  gives  her  authorities, 
the  marriage  took  place  March  21,  1805.  The 
Countess  died  January  5,  1807.  Count  Vipart 
returned  to  Guadaloupe  whence  he  had  come 
to  this  country  at  the  time  of  the  insurrection  : 
there  he  married  again,  and  there  he  died  and 
was  buried,  but  his  remains  were  afterward 
removed  to  the  family  tomb  in  Bordeaux, 
France.  Mr.  Matthew'  Whittier,  the  poet's 
only  brother,  married  Abby,  daughter  of  Jo 
seph  Rochemont  de  Poyen.] 

Page  10/5.     The  Pennsylvania  Pilgrim. 

[The  following  long  note  originally  was  used 
as  an  introduction  to  the  poem.]  The  begin 
ning  of  German  emigration  to  America  may  be 
traced  to  the  personal  inHuence  of  William 
Penn,  who  in  1(577  visited  the  Continent,  and 
made  the  acquaintance  of  an  intelligent  and 
highly  cultivated  circle  of  Pietists,  or  Mystics, 


NOTES 


5'9 


who,  reviving  in  the  seventeenth  century  the 
spiritual  faith  and  worship  of  Tauler  and  the 
"  Friends  of  God  "  in  the  fourteenth,  gathered 
about  the  pastor  Spener,  and  the  young  and 
beautiful  Eleonora  Johanna  Von  Merlau.  In 
this  circle  originated  the  Frankfort  Land  Com 
pany,  which  bought  of  William  Penn,  the  Gov 
ernor  of  Pennsylvania,  a  tract  of  land  near  the 
new  city  of  Philadelphia. 

The  company's  agent  in  the  New  World  was 
a  rising  young  lawyer,  Francis  Daniel  Pastorius, 
son  of  Judge  Pastorius,  of  Windsheim,  who,  at 
the  age  of  seventeen,  entered  the  University  of 
Altorf.  He  studied  law  at  Strasburg,  Basle, 
and  Jena,  and  at  Ratisbon  the  seat  of  the  Im 
perial  Government,  obtained  a  practical  know 
ledge  of  international  polity.  Successful  in  all 
his  examinations  and  disputations,  he  received 
the  degree  of  Doctor  of  Law  at  Nuremberg  in 
1676.  In  1671)  he  was  a  law -lecturer  at  Frank 
fort,  where  he  became  deeply  interested  in  the 
teachings  of  Dr.  Spener.  In  1080-81  he  trav 
elled  in  France,  England,  Ireland,  and  Italy 
with  his  friend  Herr  Von  Rodeck.  "  I  was," 
he  says,  "glad  to  enjoy  again  the  company^of 
my  Christian  friends,  rather  than  be  with  Von 
Rodeck,  feasting  and  dancing."  In  1683,  in 
company  with  a  small  number  of  German 
Friends,  he  emigrated  to  America,  settling 
upon  the  Frankfort  Company's  tract  between 
the  Schuylkill  and  the  Delaware  rivers.  The 
township  was  divided  into  four  hamlets,  namely, 
Germantown,  Krisheim,  Crefield,  and  Sommer- 
hausen.  Soon  after  his  arrival  he  united  him 
self  with  the  Society  of  Friends,  and  became 
one  of  its  most  able  and  devoted  members,  as 
well  as  the  recognized  head  and  lawgiver  of  the 
settlement.  He  married*  two  years  after  his 
arrival,  Anneke  (Anna),  daughter  of  Dr.  Klos- 
terman,  of  Muhlheim. 

In  the  year  16V8  he  drew  up  a  memorial 
against  slaveholding,  which  was  adopted  by 
the  Germantown  Friends  and  sent  up  to  the 
Monthly  Meeting,  and  thence  to  the  Yearly 
Meeting  at  Philadelphia.  It  is  noteworthy  as 
the  first  protest  made  by  a  religious  body 
against  Negro  Slavery.  The  original  document 
was  discovered  in  1*44  by  the  Philadelphia  an 
tiquarian,  Nathan  Kite,  and  published  in  The 
Friend  (Vol.  XVIII.  No.  16).  It  is  a  bold  and 
direct  appeal  to  the  best  instincts  of  the  heart. 
"Have  not,"  he  asks,  "these  negroes  as  much 
right  to  fight  for  their  freedom  as  you  have  to 
keep  them  slaves  ?  " 

Under  the  wise  direction  of  Pastorius,  the 
Germantown  settlement  grew  and  prospered. 
The  inhabitants  planted  orchards  and  vine 
yards,  and  surrounded  themselves  with  souve 
nirs  of  their  old  home.  A  large  number  of  them 
were  linen-weavers,  as  well  as  small  farmers. 
The  Quakers  were  the  principal  sect,  but  men 
of  all  religions  were  tolerated,  and  lived  to 
gether  in  harmony.  In  1692  Richard  Frame 
published,  in  what  he  called  verse,  a  Descrip 
tion  of  Pennsylvania,  in  which  he  alludes  to  the 
settlement :  — 


"The  German  town  of  which  I  spoke  before, 
Which  is  at  least  in  length  one  mile  or  more, 
Where  lives  High  German  people  and  Low  Dutch, 
Whose  trade  in  weaving  linen  cloth  is  much,  — 
There  grows  the  tiax,  as  also  you  may  know 
That  from  the  same  they  do  divide  the  tow. 
Their  trade  suits  well  their  habitation, 
We  find  convenience  for  their  occupation." 

Pastorius  seems  to  have  been  on  intimate 
terms  with  William  Penn,  Thomas  Lloyd, 
Chief  Justice  Logan,  Thomas  Story,  and  other 
leading  men  in  the  Province  belonging  to  his 
own  religious  society,  as  also  with  Kelpius,  the 
learned  Mystic  of  the  Wissahickon,  with  the 
pastor  of  the  Swedes'  church,  and  the  leaders 
of  the  Mennonites.  He  wrote  a  description  of 
Pennsylvania,  which  was  published  at  Frank 
fort  and  Leipsic  in  1700  and  1701.  His  Lives  of 
the  Saints,  etc.,  written  in  German  and  dedi 
cated  to  Professor  Schurmberg,  his  old  teacher, 
was  published  in  16i)0.  He  left  behind  him 
many  unpublished  manuscripts  covering  a  very 
wide  range  of  subjects,  most  of  which  are  now 
lost.  One  huge  manuscript  folio,  entitled  Hive 
Beestock,  Mtlliotropheum  Alucar,  or  Eusca 
Apium,  still  remains,  containing  one  thousand 
pages  with  about  one  hundred  lines  to  a  page. 
It  is  a  medley  of  knowledge  and  fancy,  history, 
philosophy,  and  poetry,  written  in  seven  lan 
guages.  A  large  portion  of  his  poetry  is  de 
voted  to  the  pleasures  of  gardening,  the  descrip 
tion  of  flowers,  and  the  care  of  bees.  The 
following  specimen  of  his  punning  Latin  is  ad 
dressed  to  an  orchard-pilferer  :  — 

"  Quisquis  in  hsec  furtim  reptas  /iridaria  nostra 
Tangere  fallaci  poma  caveto  manu, 
Si  non  obsequeris  faxit  Deus  omne  quod  opto, 
Cum  malis  nostris  ut  mala  cuncta  feras." 

Professor  Oswald  Seidensticker,  to  whose  pa 
pers  in  Der  Deutsche  Pioneer  and  that  able 
periodical  The  Penn  Monthly,  of  Philadelphia, 
I  am  indebted  for  many  of  the  foregoing  facts 
in  regard  to  the  German  pilgrims  of  the  New 
World,  thus  closes  his  notice  of  Pastorius  :  — 

"  No  tombstone,  not  even  a  record  of  burial, 
indicates  where  his  remains  have  found  their 
last  resting-place,  and  the  pardonable  desire  to 
associate  the  homage  due  to  this  distinguished 
man  with  some  visible  memento  cannot  be  grati 
fied.  There  is  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  was 
interred  in  any  other  place  than  the  Friends' 
old  burying-groiuid  in  Germantown,  though  the 
fact  is  not  attested  by  any  definite  source  of  in 
formation.  After  all,  this  obliteration  of  the 
last  trace  of  his  earthly  existence  is  but  typical 
of  what  has  overtaken  the  times  which  he  rep 
resents  ;  that  Germantown  which  he  founded, 
which  saw  him  live  and  move,  is  at  present  but 
a  quaint  idyl  of  the  past,  almost  a  myth,  barely 
remembered  and  little  cared  for  by  the  keener 
race  that  has  succeeded." 

The  Pilgrims  of  Plymouth  have  not  lacked 
historian  and  poet.  Justice  has  been  done  to 
their  faith,  courage,  and  self-sacrifice  and  to 
the  mighty  influence  of  their  endeavors  to  es 
tablish  righteousness  on  the  earth.  The  Quakei 


520 


APPENDIX 


pilgrims  of  Pennsylvania,  seeking  the  same  ob 
ject  by  different  means,  have  not  been  equally 
fortunate.  The  power  of  their  testimony  for 
truth  and  holiness,  peace  and  freedom,  enforced 
only  by  what  Milton  calls  "the  unresistible 
might  of  meekness,"  has  been  felt  through  two 
centuries  in  the  amelioration  of  penal  severi 
ties,  the  abolition  of  slavery,  the  reform  of  the 
erring,  the  relief  of  the  poor  and  suffering,  — 
felt,  in  brief,  in  every  step  of  human  progress. 
But  of  the  men  themselves,  with  the  single  ex 
ception  of  William  Penn,  scarcely  anything  is 
known.  Contrasted,  from  the  outset,  with  the 
stern,  aggressive  Puritans  of  New  England, 
they  have  come  to  be  regarded  as  "  a  feeble 
folk,"  with  a  personality  as  doubtful  as  their 
unrecorded  graves.  They  were  not  soldiers, 
like  Miles  Standish  ;  they  had  no  figure  so  pic 
turesque  as  Vane,  no  leader  so  rashly  brave  and 
haughty  as  Endicott.  No  Cotton  Mather  wrote 
their  Magnaiia  ;  they  had  no  awful  drama  of 
supernaturalism  in  which  Satan  and  his  angels 
were  actors ;  and  the  only  witch  mentioned  in 
their  simple  annals  was  a  poor  old  Swedish 
woman,  who,  on  complaint  of  her  country 
women,  was  tried  and  acquitted  of  everything 
but  imbecility  and  folly.  Nothing  but  common 
place  offices  of  civility  came  to  pass  between 
them  and  the  Indians ;  indeed,  their  enemies 
taunted  them  with  the  fact  that  the  savages 
did  not  regard  them  as  Christians,  but  just 
such  men  as  themselves.  Yet  it  must  be  appar 
ent  to  every  careful  observer  of  the  progress 
of  American  civilization  that  its  two  principal 
currents  had  their  sources  in  the  entirely  op 
posite  directions  of  the  Puritan  and  Quaker 
colonies.  To  use  the  words  of  a  late  writer : l 
"The  historical  forces,  with  which  no  others 
may  be  compared  in  their  influence  on  the  peo 
ple,  have  been  those  of  the  Puritan  and  the 
Quaker.  The  strength  of  the  one  was  in  the 
confession  of  an  invisible  Presence,  a  righteous, 
eternal  Will,  which  would  establish  righteous 
ness  on  earth  ;  and  thence  arose  the  conviction 
of  a  direct  personal  responsibility,  which  could 
be  tempted  by  no  eternal  splendor  and  could  be 
shaken  by  no  internal  agitation,  and  could  not 
be  evaded  or  transferred.  The  strength  of  the 
other  was  the  witness  in  the  human  spirit  to  an 
eternal  Word,  an  Inner  Voice  which  spoke  to 
each  alone,  while  yet  it  spoke  to  every  man  ;  a 
Light  which  each  was  to  follow,  and  which  yet 
was  the  light  of  the  world  ;  and  all  other  voices 
were  silent  before  this,  and  the  solitary  path 
whither  it  led  was  more  sacred  than  the  worn 
ways  of  cathedral-aisles." 

It  will  be  sufficiently  apparent  to  the  reader 
that,  in  the  poem  which  follows,  I  have  at 
tempted  nothing  beyond  a  study  of  the  life  and 
times  of  the  Pennsylvania  colonist,  —  a  simple 
picture  of  a  noteworthy  man  and  his  locality. 
The  colors  of  my  sketch  are  all  very  sober, 
toned  down  to  the  quiet  and  dreamy  atmos 
phere  through  which  its  subject  is  visible. 
Whether,  in  the  glare  and  tumult  of  the  pres- 

1  Mulford's  The  Nation,  pp.  267,  268. 


ent  time,  such  a  picture  will  find  favor  may 
well  be  questioned.  I  only  know  that  it  has 
beguiled  for  me  some  hours  of  weariness,  and 
that,  whatever  may  be  its  measure  of  public 
appreciation,  it  has  been  to  me  its  own  reward. 

Page  104.  As  once,  he  heard  in  sweet  Von 
Merlau's  bowers. 

Eleonora  Johanna  Von  Merlau,  or,  as  Sewall 
the  Quaker  Historian  gives  it,  Von  Merlane,  a 
noble  young  lady  of  Frankfort,  seems  to  have 
held  among  the  Mystics  of  that  city  very  much 
such  a  position  as  Anna  Maria  Schurmaus  did 
among  the  Labadists  of  Holland.  William 
Penn  appears  to  have  shared  the  admiration  of 
her  own  immediate  circle  for  this  accomplished 
and  gifted  lady. 

Page  1U(3.  Or  painful  Kelpius  from  his  her 
mit  den. 

Magister  Jphann  Kelpius,  a  graduate  of  the 
University  of  Helmstadt,  came  to  Pennsylvania 
in  1694,  with  a  company  of  German  Mystics. 
They  made  their  home  in  the  woods  on  the 
Wissahickon,  a  little  west  of  the  Quaker  settle 
ment  of  Germantown.  Kelpius  was  a  believer 
in  the  near  approach  of  the  Millennium,  and  was 
a  devout  student  of  the  Book  of  Revelation, 
and  the  Morgen-Rothe  of  Jacob  Behmen.  He 
called  his  settlement  "The  Woman  in  the 
Wilderness"  (Das  Weib  in  der  Wueste).  He 
was  only  twenty-four  years  of  age  when  he 
came  to  America,  but  his  gravity,  learning, 
and  devotion  placed  him  at  the  head  of  the 
settlement.  He  disliked  the  Quakers,  because 
he  thought  they  were  too  exclusive  in  the  mat 
ter  of  ministers.  He  was,  like  most  of  the 
Mystics,  opposed  to  the  severe  doctrinal  views 
of  Calvin  and  even  Luther,  declaring  "that  he 
could  as  little  agree  with  the  Damnamus  of  the 
Augsburg  Confession  as  with  the  Anathema  of 
the  Council  of  Trent." 

He  died  in  1704,  sitting  in  his  little  garden 
surrounded  by  his  grieving  disciples.  Previous 
to  his  death  it  is  said  that  he  cast  his  famous 
"Stone  of  Wisdom"  into  the  river,  where 
that  mystic  souvenir  of  the  times  of  Van  Hel- 
mont,  Paracelsus,  and  Agrippa  has  lain  ever 
since,  undisturbed. 

Page  100.  Or  Sluyter,  saintly  familist,  whose 
word. 

Peter  Sluyter,  or  Schluter,  a  native  of  Wesel, 
united  himself  with  the  sect  of  Labadists,  who 
believed  in  the  Divine  commission  of  John  De 
Labadie,  a  Roman  Catholic  priest  converted 
to  Protestantism,  enthusiastic,  eloquent,  and 
evidently  sincere  in  his  special  calling  and  elec 
tion  to  separate  the  true  and  living  members  of 
the  Church  of  Christ  from  the  formalism  and 
hypocrisy  of  the  ruling  sects.  George  Keith  and 
Robert  Barclay  visited  him  at  Amsterdam,  and 
afterward  at  the  communities  of  Herford  and 
Wieward  ;  and,  according  to  Gerard  Croes,  found 
him  so  near  to  them  on  some  points,  that  they 
offered  to  take  him  into  the  Society  of  Friends. 
This  offer,  if  it  was  really  made,  which  is  cer 
tainly  doubtful,  was,  happily  for  the  Friends  at 
least,  declined.  Invited  to  Herford  in  West 
phalia  by  Elizabeth,  daughter  of  the  Elector 


NOTES 


521 


Palatine,  De  Labadie  and  his  followers 
preached  incessantly,  and  succeeded  in  arousing 
a  wild  enthusiasm  among  the  people,  who  neg 
lected  their  business  and  gave  way  to  excite 
ments  and  strange  practices.  Men  and  women, 
it  was  said,  at  the  Communion  drank  and  danced 
together,  and  private  marriages,  or  spiritual 
unions,  were  formed.  Labadie  died  in  1674  at 
Altona,  in  Denmark,  maintaining  his  testimo 
nies  to  the  last.  "Nothing  remains  for  me," 
he  said,  "  except  to  go  to  my  God.  Death  is 
merely  ascending  from  a  lower  and  narrower 
chamber  to  one  higher  and  holier." 

In  1679,  Peter  Sluyter  and  Jasper  Dankers 
were  sent  to  America  by  the  community  at  the 
Castle  of  Wieward.  Their  journal,  translated 
from  the  Dutch  and  edited  by  Henry  C.  Murphy, 
has  been  recently  [1872]  published  by  the  Long 
Island  Historical  Society.  They  made  some  con 
verts,  and  among  them  was  the  eldest  son  of  Her 
manns,  the  proprietor  of  a  rich  tract  of  land  at 
the  head  of  Chesapeake  Bay,  known  as  Bohemia 
Manor.  Sluyter  obtained  a  grant  of  this  tract, 
and  established  upon  it  a  community  numbering 
at  one  time  a  hundred  souls.  Very  contradic 
tory  statements  are  on  record  regarding  his 
headship  of  this  spiritual  family,  the  discipline 
of  which  seems  to  have  been  of  more  than  mo 
nastic  severity.  Certain  it  is  that  he  bought 
and  sold  slaves,  and  manifested  more  interest 
in  the  world's  goods  than  became  a  believer  in 
the  near  Millennium.  He  evinces  in  his  jour 
nal  an  overweening  spiritual  pride,  and  speaks 
contemptuously  of  other  professors,  especially 
the  Quakers  whom  he  met  in  his  travels.  The 
latter,  on  the  contrary,  seem  to  have  looked 
favoiably  upon  the  Labadists,  and  uniformly 
speak  of  them  courteously  and  kindly.  His 
journal  shows  him  to  have  been  destitute  of 
common  gratitude  and  Christian  charity.  He 
threw  himself  upon  the  generous  hospitality  of 
the  Friends  wherever  he  went,  and  repaid  their 
kindness  by  the  coarsest  abuse  and  misrepre 
sentation. 

Page  107.  His  long-disused  and  half-forgotten 
lore. 

Among  the  pioneer  Friends  were  many  men 
of  learning  and  broad  and  liberal  "views.  Penn 
•was  conversant  with  every  department  of  liter 
ature  and  philosophy.  Thomas  Lloyd  was  a 
ripe  and  rare  scholar.  The  great  Loganian 
Library  of  Philadelphia  bears  witness  to  the 
varied  learning  and  classical  taste  of  its  donor, 
James  Logan.  Thomas  Story,  member  of  the 
Council  of  State,  Master  of  the  Rolls  and  Com 
missioner  of  Claims  under  William  Penn,  and 
an  able  minister  of  his  Society,  took  a  deep 
interest  in  scientific  questions,  and  in  a  letter  to 
his  friend  Logan,  written  while  on  a  religious 
visit  to  Great  Britain,  seems  to  have  anticipated 
the  conclusion  of  modern  geologists.  u  I  spent," 
he  says,  "some  months,  especially  at  Scarbor 
ough,  during  the  season  attending  meetings,  at 
whose  high  cliffs  and  the  variety  of  strata 
therein  and  their  several  positions  I  further 
learned  and  was  confirmed  in  some  things,  — 
that  the  earth  is  of  much  older  date  as  to  the 


beginning  of  it  than  the  time  assigned  in  the 
Holy  Scriptures  as  commonly  understood,  which 
is  suited  to  the  common  capacities  of  mankind, 
as  to  six  days  of  progressive  work,  by  which  I 
understand  certain  long  and  competent  periods 
of  time,  and  not  natural  days."  It  was  some 
times  made  a  matter  of  reproach  by  the  Ana 
baptists  and  other  sects,  that  the  Quakers 
read  profane  writings  and  philosophies,  jid 
that  they  quoted  heathen  moralists  in  support 
of  their  views.  Sluyter  and  Dankers,  in  their 
journal  of  American  travels,  visiting  a  Quaker 
preacher's  house  at  Burlington,  on  the  Dela 
ware,  found  "a volume  of  Virgil  lying  on  the 
window,  as  if  it  were  a  common  hand-book ; 
also  Helmont's  book  on  Medicine  (Ortus  Medi- 
cinaz,  id  est  Initia  Physica  inaudita  progressus 
medicince  novus  in  morborum  ultionam  ad  vitam 
longam),  whom,  in  an  introduction  they  have 
made  to  it,  they  make  to  pass  for  one  of  their 
own  sect,  although  in  his  lifetime  he  did  not 
know  anything  about  Quakers."  It  would 
appear  from  this  that  the  ha  If -mystical,  half- 
scientific  writings  of  the  alchemist  and  philos 
opher  of  Vilverde  had  not  escaped  the  notice 
of  Friends,  and  that  they  had  included  him 
in  their  broad  eclecticism. 

Page  107.  As  still  in  Hemskerck'' s  Quaker 
Meeting. 

"The  Quaker's  Meeting,"  a  painting  by  E, 
Hemskerck  (supposed  to  be  Egbert  Hemskerck 
the  younger,  son  of  Egbert  Hemskerck  the 
old),  in  which  William  Penn  and  others  — 
among  them  Charles  II.,  or  the  Duke  of  York  — 
are  represented  along  with  the  rudest  and  most 
stolid  class  of  the  British  rural  population  at 
that  period.  Hemskerck  came  to  London 
from  Holland  with  King  William  in  1689.  He 
delighted  in  wild,  grotesque  subjects,  such  as 
the  nocturnal  intercourse  of  witches  and  the 
temptation  of  St.  Anthony.  Whatever  was 
strange  and  uncommon  attracted  his  free  pencil. 
Judging  from  the  portrait  of  Penn,  he  must  have 
drawn  his  faces,  figures,  and  costumes  from 
life,  although  there  may  be  something  of  carica 
ture  in  the  convulsed  attitudes  of  two  or  three 
of  the  figures. 

Page  109.  The  Indian  from  his  face  washed 
all  his  war-paint  off. 

In  one  of  his  letters  addressed  to  German 
Friends,  Pastorius  says  :  "  These  wild  men,  who 
never  in  their  life  heard  Christ's  teachings 
about  temperance  and  contentment,  herein  far 
surpass  the  Christians.  They  live  far  more  con 
tented  and  unconcerned  for  the  morrow.  They 
do  not  overreach  in  trade.  They  know  no 
thing  of  our  everlasting  pomp  and  stylishness. 
They  neither  curse  nor  swear,  are  temperate  in 
food  and  drink,  and  if  any  of  them  get  drunk, 
the  mouth  -  Christians  are  at  fault,  who,  for 
the  sake  of  accursed  lucre,  sell  them  strong 
drink." 

Again  he  wrote  in  1698  to  his  father  that  he 
finds  the  Indians  reasonable  people,  willing  to 
accept  good  teaching  and  manners,  evincing  an 
inward  piety  toward  God,  and  more  eager,  in 
fact,  to  understand  things  divine  than  many 


522 


APPENDIX 


among  those  who  in  the  pulpit  teach  Christ  in 
word,  but  by  ungodly  life  deny  him. 

"It  is  evident,"  says  Prof  essor  Seidensticker, 
u  Pastorius  holds  up  the  Indian  as  Nature's 
unspoiled  child  to  the  eyes  of  the  '  European 
Babel,'  somewhat  after  the  same  manner  in 
which  Tacitus  used  the  barbarian  Germani  to 
shame  his  degenerate  countrymen." 

As  believers  in  the  universality  of  the  Saving- 
Light,  the  outlook  of  early  Friends  upon  the 
heathen  was  a  very  cheerful  and  hopeful  one. 
God  was  as  near  to  them  as  to  Jew  or  Anglo- 
Saxon  ;  as  accessible  at  Timbuctoo  as  at  Rome  or 
Geneva.  Not  the  letter  of  Scripture,  but  the 
spirit  which  dictated  it,  was  of  saving  efficacy. 
Robert  Barclay  is  nowhere  more  powerful  than 
in  his  argument  for  the  salvation  of  the  hea 
then,  who  live  according  to  their  light,  with 
out  knowing  even  the  name  of  Christ.  Wil 
liam  Penn  thought  Socrates  as  good  a  Chris 
tian  as  Richard  Baxter.  Early  Fathers  of  the 
Church,  as  Origen  and  Justin  Martyr,  held 
broader  views  on  this  point  than  modern  Evan 
gelicals.  Even  Augustine,  from  whom  Calvin 
borrowed  his  theology,  admits  that  he  has  no 
controversy  with  the  admirable  philosophers 
Plato  and  Plotinus.  "  Nor  do  I  think,"  he  says 
in  De  Civ-  Dei,  lib.  xviii.,  cap.  47,  "that  the 
Jews  dare  affirm  that  none  belonged  unto  God 
but  the  Israelites." 

Page  112.  To-morrow  shall  bring  another 
day. 

A  common  saying  of  Valdemar  ;  hence  his 
sobriquet  Alter  (lag. 

Page  117.     The  Witch  of  Wenham. 

[The  house  referred  to  in  the  head-note 
is  that  known  as  the  old  Prince  house,  near 
Oak  Knoll,  on  the  estate  now  ownec*  by  the 
Xaverian  Brothers.  In  sending  the  poem  to 
The  Atlantic,  where  it  was  first  published, 
Whittier  wrote  to  the  editor:  "I  do  not  know 
how  it  may  strike  thee  ;  to  me  (who  am  no 
good  judge)  it  seems  one  of  my  best."] 

Page  135.     The  Homestead. 

fin  a  letter  written  after  the  appearance  of 
The  Homestead,  Whittier  wrote :  "I  saw  in 
the  country  several  of  these  melancholy  spec 
tacles  of  abandoned  homes.  I  think  the  farm 
ers  of  New  England  are  better  off  as  a  class,  on 
their  hard  soil,  than  those  who  are  on  the  rich 
lands  of  the  West.  They  are  not  rich,  but  they 
are  not  poor  ;  they  live  comfortably,  and  as  a 
rule  own  their  farms  clear  of  mortgage.  If  they 
were  content  to  live  and  toil  as  the  poorer  farm 
ers  in  the  West  do,  they  would  double  their 
deposits  in  the  savings  banks."] 

Page  138.  And  led  by  Him,  nor  man  nor 
devils  I  fear. 

"  He  [Macy]  shook  the  dust  from  off  his  feet, 
and  departed  with  all  his  worldly  goods  and 
his  family.  He  encountered  a  severe  storm, 
and  his  wife,  influenced  by  some  omens  of  dis 
aster,  besought  him  to  put  back.  He  told  her 
not  to  fear,  for  his  faith  was  perfect.  But  she 
entreated  him  again.  Then  the  spirit  that 
impelled  him  broke  forth  :  '  Woman,  go  below 
fcnd  seek  thy  God.  I  fear  not  the  witches  on 


earth,  or  the  devils  in  hell  1 '  " —  Life  of  Robert 
Pike,  page  55. 

Page  142.     The  hardy  Anglo-Saxon  stood. 

The  celebrated  Captain  Smith,  after  resign 
ing  the  government  of  the  Colony  in  Virginia, 
in  his  capacity  of  kk  Admiral  of  New  England," 
made  a  careful  survey  of  the  coast  from  Penob- 
scotto  Cape  Cod,  in  the  summer  of  Kil4. 

Page  142.     The  swetttsl  name  in  all  his  story. 

Captain  Smith  gave  to  the  promontory,  now 
called  Cape  Ann,  the  name  of  Tragabizanda,  in 
memory  of  his  young  and  beautiful  mistress  of 
that  name,  who,  while  he  was  a  captive  at  Con 
stantinople,  like  Desdemona,  "  loved  him  for 
the  dangers  he  had  passed." 

Page  153.     The  Old  Bury  ing-Ground. 

[This  poem  was  written  with  a  thought  of 
the  ancient  cemetery  at  East  Haverhill,  near 
Rocks  Village.  "The  entire  piece,"  Whittier 
wrote  to  Lowell,  "  has  now  to  me  a  deep  and 
solemn  significance.  It  was  written  in  part 
while  watching  at  the  sick-bed  of  my  dear  mo 
ther  —  now  no  longer  with  us.  She  passed  away 
a  lew  days  ago,  in  the  beautiful  serenity  of  a 
Christian  faith,  a  quiet  and  peaceful  dismis- 
sal."] 

Page  1 55.     The  River  Path. 

[To  a  friend  who  inquired  as  to  the  origin  of 
this  poem,  Whittier  wrote  :  "  The  poem  was 
suggested  by  an  evening  on  the  Merrimac  River 
in  company  with  my  dear  sister,  who  is  no 
longer  with  me,  having  crossed  the  river  (as  I 
fervently  hope),  to  the  glorified  hill  of  God."] 

Page  157.     The  Vanishers. 

[This  was  the  first  poem  written  by  Whittier 
after  the  death  of  his  sister  Elizabeth.  In  a 
letter  to  Mr.  Fields  he  says:  "If  thee  have 
read  Schoolcraf t  thee  will  remember  what  he 
says  of  the  Packwud-jinnies  or  k  little  vanish- 
era.'  "  The  reference  is  to  History,  Condition 
and  Prospects  of  the  Arrerican  Indians,  pp.  122, 

Page  160.     /  see  the  gray  forCs  broken  wall. 

[The  place  that  was  in  the  mind  of  the  poet 
when  he  wrote  this  stanza  was  on  the  rocks  at 
Marblehead,  where  he  had  spent  an  early  morn« 
ing  more  than  forty  years  before.] 

Page  171.     Over  Sibmah's  vine. 

"  O  vine  of  Sibmah  !  I  will  weep  for  thee 
with  the  weeping  of  Jazer  !  "  Jeremiah,  xlviii. 
32. 

Page  172. 

Even  as  the  great  Augustine 

Quesiionea  earth  and  sea  and  sky. 
"Interrogavi  Terrain,"  etc.    August.    Soliloq. 
Cap.  xxxi. 
Psvjre  I7:?.     To  a  Friend. 

[The  friend  was  Elizabeth  Neall,  afterward 
Mrs.  Sydney  Howard  Gay.] 

Page  174.     Lucy  Hooper. 

[It  was  in  the  summer  of  1837,  while  residing 
in  New  York,  that  Whittier  made  the  acquain 
tance  of  Lucy  Hooper.  She  was  a  native  of 
Essex  County,  and  was  at  that  time  living 
with  her  parents  in  Brooklyn.  Whittier  en* 
couraged  her  literary  ambition,  for  she  had 
given  promise  of  poetic  excellence,  and  was  con* 


NOTES 


523 


siJering  the  advisability  of  publishing-  a  volume. 
Wnen  Whittier  shortly  afterward  was  editing 
The  Pennsylvania  Freeman,  he  printed  several 
of  her  poems.  Later  in  18i>9  he  was  with  her 
by  the  Merrimao  one  August  afternoon.] 
Page  190. 

And  the  goodmanjs  voice,  at  strife 
With  his  shrill  and  tipsy  wife. 

[When  Whittier  first  went  to  school  with 
his  sister  Mary,  the  school-house  was  undergo 
ing  repairs,  and  the  school  was  held  in  a  dwell 
ing  house,  the  other  part  of  which  was  occupied 
by  a  tipsy  and  quarrelsome  couple.] 

Page  ll>2.     Homilies  from  Old  bug  hear. 

Dr.  Withington,  author  of  The  Puritan,  under 
the  name  of  Jonathan  Oldbug. 

Page  192.     The  holt/  monk  of  Kempen  spake. 

Thomas  k  Kempis  in  De  Imitatione  Christi. 

Page  l!)b'.  When,  years  ago,  beside  the  sum 
mer  sea. 

[In  the  great  political  contest  of  1850,  in  Mas 
sachusetts,  when  the  United  States  senatorship 
was  in  question,  Whittier  took  an  active  part 
in  forming  the  coalition  between  the  Free  toil 
ers  and  the  Democrats.  He  went  to  Phillips 
Beach,  Swampscott,  to  see  Sunnier  and  induce 
him  to  accept  the  nomination.] 

Page  226.    /  thank  you  fur  sweet  summer  days. 

[At  one  of  the  Laurel  festivals  the  guests  who 
had  so  often  enjoyed  the  hospitality  of  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Ashby  presented  them  with  an  album  con 
taining  photographs  and  other  tokens  of  their 
appreciation.  Upon  the  first  page  were  written 
these  lines  by  Whittier  :  — 

DEAR  FRIENDS  :  — 

Accept  this  book  whose  pages  hold 

The  sun-traced  shadows  manifold 

Of  friends,  who  've  known  you  long  and  well 

At  city  hearth,  in  sylvan  dell, 

Enjoying  under  roof  and  tree 

Your  liberal  hospitality  ; 

Who  grateful  own  that  while  you  gave 

Your  life-long  labor  to  the  slave, 

(A  labor  crowned  with  more  success 

Than  hope  could  dream,  or  wisdom  guess) 

You  kept  warm  hearts,  and  opened  wide 

Your  windows  on  life's  sunny  side. 

Take,  then,  the  volume  with  our  thanks, 

And  long  upon  your  river  banks 

When  in  aznler.-gladdened  woods 

The  June  sun  swells  the  laurel  buds, 

May  we  still  meet  as  we  have  met, 

And  larger  make  to  you  our  debt.] 

Page  228.  Hymn  for  the  House  of  Worship  at 
Georgetown. 

[  Whittier  published  the  following  card  in  the 
Boston  Transcript,  January  30,  1868;  tl  In  writ 
ing  the  Hymn  for  the  Memorial  Church  at 
Georgetown,  the  author,  as  his  verses  indicate, 
has  sole  reference  to  the  tribute  of  a  brother 
?*nd  sister  to  the  mem  >ry  of  a  departed  mother, 
~T  a  .tr\0',ite  which  seemed,  and  still  seems  to 
him  in  itself  considered,  very  beautiful  and  ap 
propriate  ;  but  he  has  since  seen  with  surprise 
and  sorrow  a  letter  read  at  the  dedication,  im 
posing  certain  extraordinary  restrictions  upon 
the  society  which  is  to  occupy  the  house.  It  is 
due  to  himself,  as  a  simple  act  of  justice,  to  say 


that  had  he  known  of  the  existence  of  that  let 
ter  previously,  the  Hymn  would  never  have  been 
written,  nor  his  name  in  any  way  connected 
with  the  proceedings."  The  restrictions  imposed 
were  designed  to  prevent  the  use  of  the  build 
ing  for  any  lecture  or  discussion  on  political 
subjects  or  other  matters  inconsistent  with  the 
preaching  of  the  gospel.] 

Page  245.     Fie  on  the  witch  ! 

Goody  Cole  was  brought  before  the  Quarter 
Sessions  in  1680  to  answer  to  the  charge  of  be 
ing  a  witch.  The  court  could  not  find  satisfac- 
|  tory  evidence  of  witchcraft,  but  so  strong  was 
the  feeling  against  her  that  Major  Waldron, 
the  presiding  magistrate,  ordered  her  to  be  im 
prisoned,  with  a  "  lock  kept  on  her  leg,"  at  the 
pleasure  of  the  Court.  In  such  judicial  action 
one  can  read  the  fear  and  vindictive  spirit  of 
the  community  at  large. 

Page  246.     "  Amen  !  "  said  Father  Bachiler. 

[Evidence  found  in  favor  of  the  Rev.  Stephen 
Bachiler,  an  ancestor  of  the  poet,  after  the 
poem  was  first  printed,  led  Whittier  to  mod 
ify  lines  which  implied  the  guilt  of  the  clergy 
man.] 

Page  249.    His  Crimean  camp-song  hints  to  us. 

The  reference  is  to  Bayard  Taylor's  poem, 
The  Song  of  the  Camp. 

Page  258.     The  Palatine. 

[The  legend  on  which  this  ballad  is  founded 
was  told  to  Mr.  Whittier  by  his  friend,  Joseph 
P.  Hazard,  of  Newport,  R.  I.,  two  years  before 
the  poem  was  written.  About  two  years  after 
it  was  published,  he  received  a  curious  letter 
from  Mr.  Benjamin  Corydon,  of  Napoli,  N.  Y., 
then  in  the  ninety-second  year  of  his  age,  who 
wrote  •'  — 

"  The  Palatine  was  a  ship  that  was  driven 
upon  Block  Island,  in  a  storm,  more  than  a 
hundred  years  ago.  Her  people  had  just  got 
ashore,  and  were  on  their  knees  thanking  God 
for  saving  them  from  drowning,  when  the  Island 
ers  rushed  upon  them  and  murdered  them  all. 
That  was  a  little  more  than  the  Almighty  could 
stand,  so  he  sent  the  Fire  or  Phantom  Ship,  to 
let  them  know  He  had  not  forgotten  their  wick 
edness.  She  was  seen  once  a  year  on  the  same 
night  of  the  year  on  which  the  murders  occurred, 
as  long  as  any  of  the  wreckers  were  living  ;  uut 
never  after  all  were  dead.  I  must  have  seen 
her  eight  or  ten  times  —  perhaps  more  —  in  my 
early  days.  It  is  seventy  years  or  more  since 
she  was  last  seen.  My  father  lived  right  oppo 
site  Block  Island,  on  the  mainland,  so  we  had  a 
fair  view  of  her  as  she  passed  down  by  the  island 
then  she  would  disappear.  She  resembled  a 
full-rigged  ship,  with  her  sails  all  set  and  all 
ablaze.  It  was  the  grandest  sight  I  ever  saw  in 
all  my  life.  I  know  of  only  two  living  who 
ever  saw  her,  —  Benjamin  L.  Knowles,  of 
Rhode  Island,  now  ninety-four  years  old,  and 
mvself,  now  in  my  ninety-second  year."] 

Page  262.     Toussaint  L^Ouverture. 

The  reader  may,  perhaps,  call  to  mind  the 
beautiful  sonnet  of  William  Wordsworth,  ad 
dressed  to  Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  during:  his 
confinement  in  France :  — 


5*4 


APPENDIX 


Toussaint !  —  thou  most  unhappy  man  of  men  ! 

Whether  the  whistling  rustic  tends  his  plough 

Within  thy  hearing,  or  thou  liest  now 
Buried  in  some  deep  dungeon's  earless  den  ; 
O  miserable  chieftain  !  —  where  and  when 

Wilt  thou  find  patience  ?  —  Yet,  die  not,  do  thou 

Wear  rather  in  thy  bonds  a  cheerful  brow  ; 
Though  fallen  thyself,  never  to  rise  again, 
Live  and  take  comfort.     Thou  hast  left  behind 

Powers  that  will  work  for  thee  ;  air,  earth,  and 

skies,  — 
There  's  not  a  breathing  of  the  common  wind 

Th?it  will  forget  thee  ;  thou  hast  great  allies. 

Thy  friends  are  exultations,  agonies, 
And  love,  and  man's  unconquerable  mind. 

Page  282.    And  he,  the  basest  of  the  base. 
The  Northern  author  of  the  Congressional  rule 
against  receiving  petitions  of  the  people  on  the 
subject  of  Slavery. 

Page  289. 

So  shalt  thou  deftly  raise 

The  market  price  of  human  flesh. 

There  was  at  the  time  when  this  poem  was 
written  an  Association  in  Liberty  County,  Geor 
gia,  for  the  religious  instruction  of  negroes.  One 
of  their  annual  reports  contains  an  address  by 
the  Rev.  Josiah  Spry  Law,  in  which  the  follow 
ing  passage  occurs  :  "  There  is  a  growing  inter 
est  in  this  community  in  the  religious  instruc 
tion  of  Negroes.  There  is  a  conviction  that  re 
ligious  instruction  promotes  the  quiet  and  order 
of  the  people,  and  the  pecuniary  interest  of  the 
owners." 

Page  293.     The  Pine-Tree. 

[Whittier  wrote  this  poem  immediately  upon 
reading  the  proceedings  of  the  convention. 
He  enclosed  it  in  the  following  note  to  Charles 
Sumner  :  "  I  have  just  read  the  proceedings  of 
your  Whig  convention  and  the  lines  enclosed 
are  a  feeble  expression  of  my  feelings.  I  look 
upon  the  rejection  of  Stephen  C.  Phillips's  reso 
lutions  as  an  evidence  that  the  end  and  aim  of 
the  managers  of  the  convention  was  to  go  just 
far  enough  to  scare  the  party  and  no  farther. 
All  thanks  for  the  free  voices  of  thyself , Phillips, 
Allen,  and  Adams.  Notwithstanding  the  result 
you  have  not  spoken  in  vain.  If  thee  thinks 
well  enough  of  these  verses,  hand  them  to  the 
Whig  or  Ckrottotype-"] 

Page  298.     /  hear  the  Free-  Wills  singing. 

The  book-establishment  of  the  Free-Will 
Baptists  in  Dover  was  refused  the  act  of  incor 
poration  by  the  New  Hampshire  Legislature, 
for  the  reason  that  the  newspaper  organ  of  that 
sect  and  its  leading  preachers  favored  abolition. 

Page  299.  Our  Belknap  brother  heard  with 
awe. 

The  senatorial  editor  of  the  Belknap  Gazette 
all  along  manifested  a  peculiar  horror  of  "  nig 
gers  "  and  "  nigger  parties." 

Page  299.     At  Pittsfield,  Reuben  Leavitt  saw. 

The  justice  before  whom  Elder  Storrs  was 
brought  for  preaching  abolition  on  a  writ  drawn 
by  Hon.  M.  N.,  Jr.,  of  Pittsfield.  The  sheriff 
served  the  writ  while  the  elder  was  praying. 

Page  299.  The  schoolhouse,  out  of  Canaan 
hauled. 

The  academy  at  Canaan,  N.  H.>  received  one 


ga 
H 


or  two  colored  scholars,  and  was  in  consequence 
dragged  off  into  a  swamp  by  Democratic  teams. 
Page  299. 

What  boots  it  that  we  pelted  out 

The  anti-slavery  women. 

The  Female  Anti-Slavery  Society,  at  its  first 
meeting  in  Concord,  was  assailed  with  stones 
and  brickbats. 
Page  299. 

For  this  did  shifty  Atherton 

Make  gag  rules  for  the  great  House  ! 
'  Papers  and  memorials  touching  the  subject 
of  slavery  shall  be  laid  on  the  table  without 
reading,  debate,  or  reference."      So  read  the 

Lg-law,  as  it  was  called,  introduced  into  the 
ause  by  Mr.  Atherton. 

Page  315. 

The. first  great  triumph  won 
In  Freedom's  name. 

The  election  of  Charles  Sumner  to  the  United 
States  Senate  "  followed  hard  upon  "  the  rendi 
tion  of  the  fugitive  Sims  by  the  United  States 
officials  and  the  armed  police  of  Boston. 

Page  332.     To  William  H.  Seward. 

["  Tell  Mr.  Seward,"  Whittier  wrote  to  A. 
\y.  Thayer,  February  1,  1861,  "  I  have  bound 
him  to  good  behavior  in  my  verse,  and  that  if 
he  yields  the  ground  upon  which  the  election 
was  carried  and  consents  to  the  further  exten 
sion  of  slavery  he  will  compromise  me,  as  well 
as  the  country  and  himself."] 

Page  350.     Garrison. 

[ Whittier's  tribute  to  ' '  Garrison ' '  was  pub 
lished  in  the  Independent,  June  5,  1879,  and 
was  accompanied  by  the  following  letter  to  the 
editor  :  — 

"  At  the  solemn  and  impressive  funeral  of  my 
beloved  and  early  friend,  William  Lloyd  Gar 
rison,  one  of  the  speakers  read  a  part  of  the 
following  poem,  which  I  now  send,  asking  a 
place  for  it  in  thy  paper,  although  after  the 
surpassingly  beautiful  tribute  of  Wendell  Phil 
lips,  and  the  perhaps  still  more  touchingly  elo 
quent  words  of  Theodore  D.  Weld,  it  may 
seem  almost  superfluous.  Something  on  my 
part  seems  due  to  the  intimate  friendship  of 
more  than  fifty  years,  unbroken  and  undis 
turbed  by  any  differences  of  opinion  and  action 
during  the  long  anti-slavery  struggle."] 

Page  357.     And  beaut}/  is  its  own  excuse. 

For  the  idea  of  this  line,  I  am  indebted  to 
Emerson,  in  his  inimitable  sonnet  to  the  Rho- 
dora,  — 

If  eyes  were  made  for  seeing, 

Then  Beauty  is  its  own  excuse  for  being. 

Page  400. 

No  social  smoke 
Curled  over  woods  of  snow-hung  oak. 

So  isolated  was  the  Whittier  homestead  that 
from  the  date  of  its  erection  to  the  present 
time  no  neighbor's  roof  has  been  in  sight.] 

Page  401.     Ah,  brother  !  only  I  and  thou. 

[Matthew  Franklin  Whittier,  born  July  4, 
1812,  died  January  7,  1883.  In  middle  life,  dur 
ing  his  residence  in  Portland,  he  took  a  deep  in 
terest  in  the  anti-slavery  movement,  and  wrote 


NOTES 


525 


a  series  of  caustic  letters  under  the  signature 
Ethan  Spike  of  Hornby.] 

Page  401. 

The  .  Ifrican  Chief  was  the  title  of  a  poem  by 
Mrs.  Sarah  Wentworth  Morton,  wife  of  the 
Hon.  Perez  Morton,  a  former  attorney-general 
of  Massachusetts.  Mrs.  Morton's  nom  de  plume 
was  Philenia.  The  school  book  in  which  The 
African  Chief  v/as  printed  was  Caleb  Bingham's 
The  American  Preceptor,  and  the  poem  con 
tained  fifteen  stanzas,  of  which  the  first  four 
were  as  follows  :  — 

See  how  the  black  ship  cleaves  the  main 
High-bounding  o'er  the  violet  wave, 

Remurmuring  with  the  groans  of  pain, 
Deep  freighted  with  the  princely  slave. 

Did  all  the  gods  of  Afric  sleep, 

Forgetful  of  their  guardian  love, 
When  the  white  traitors  of  the  deep 

Betrayed  him  in  the  palmy  grove  ? 

A  chief  of  Gambia's  golden  shore, 
Whose  arm  the  band  of  warriors  led, 

Perhaps  the  lord  of  boundless  power, 
By  whom  the  foodless  poor  were  fea. 

Does  not  the  voice  of  reason  cry, 

"  Claim  the  first  right  which  nature  gave; 

From  the  red  scourge  of  bondage  fly, 
Nor  deign  to  live  a  burdened  slave  "  ? 

Page  402.  Or  Chalkletfs  Journal  old  and 
quaint. 

Chalkley's  own  narrative  of  this  incident,  as 
given  in  his  Journal,  is  as  follows  :  "  To  stop 
their  murmuring,  I  told  them  they  should  not 
need  to  east  lots,  which  was  usual  in  such  cases, 
which  of  us  should  die  first,  for  I  would  freely 
offer  up  my  life  to  do  them  good.  One  said, 
4  God  bless  you  !  I  will  not  eat  any  of  you.' 
Another  said,  '  He  would  die  before  he  would 
eat  any  of  me,'  and  so  said  several.  I  can 
truly  say,  on  that  occasion,  at  that  time,  my  life 
was  not  dear  to  me,  and  that  I  was  serious  and 
ingenuous  in  my  proposition  :  and  as  I  was  lean 
ing  over  the  side  of  the  vessel,  thoughtfully  con 
sidering  my  proposal  to  the  company,  and  look 
ing  in  my  mind  to  Him  that  made  me,  a  very 
large  dolphin  came  up  towards  the  top  or  sur 
face  of  the  water,  and  looked  me  in  the  face  ; 
and  I  called  the  people  to  put  a  hook  into  the 
sea,  and  take  him,  for  here  is  one  come  to  re 
deem  me  (I  said  to  them).  And  they  put  a 
hook  into  the  sea,  and  the  fish  readily  took  it 
and  they  caught  him.  He  was  longer  than 
myself.  I  think  he  was  about  six  feet  long, 
and  the  largest  that  ever  I  saw.  This  plainly 
showed  us  that  we  ought  not  to  distrust  ths 
providence  of  the  Almighty.  The  people  were 
quieted  by  this  act  of  Providence,  and  mur 
mured  no  more.  We  caught  enough  to  eat 
plentifully  of,  till  we  got  into  the  capes  of  Dela 
ware." 

Page  402.     Our  uncle,  innocent  of  books. 

[For  further  account  of  Whittier's  uixcle 
Moses,  the  reader  is  referred  to  Whittier's  Prose 
Works,  volume  1. 1>.  322  1 


Page  403.     There,  too,  our  elder  sister  plied, 

[Mary  Whittier,  born  September  3,  1806, 
married  Jacob  Caldwell  of  Haverhill,  had  two 
children,  Lewis  Henry  and  Mary  Elizabeth 
and  died  January  7,  18(iO.] 

Page  4U3.  Our  youngest  and  our  dearest  sat. 

[Elizabeth  Hussey  Whittier,  born  December 
7,  1815,  was  to  her  brother  John  what  Doro 
thy  Wordsworth  was  to  William.  It  was  her 
brother's  opinion  that "  had  her  health,  sense  of 
duty,  and  almost  morbid  dread  of  spiritual  and 
intellectual  egotism  permitted,  she  might  have 
taken  a  high  place  among  lyrical  singers." 
Some  of  her  poems  are  given  in  this  volume. 
She  died  September  3,  1864.] 

Page  403.     The  master  of  the  district  school. 

[Until  near  the  end  of  his  life,  Whittier  was 
unable  to  recall  the  name  of  the  schoolmaster 
who  stood  for  this  figure  in  Snow-Bound.  At 
last  he  remembered  his  name  as  Haskell.  and 
from  this  clue  the  person  was  traced.  He  was 
George  Haskell  from  Waterford,  Maine,  a 
Dartmouth  student,  who  studied  medicine, 
and  died  in  Vineland,  New  Jersey,  in  1876.] 

Page  404.     Another  guest  that  winter  night. 

[In  his  introductory  note,  Whittier  adds 
somewhat  to  his  characterization  of  Harriet 
Livermore.  At  the  time  when  Snow-Round 
was  written  he  did  not  know  that  she  was  liv 
ing,  or  he  might  not  have  introduced  her.  She 
died  in  1867.] 

Page  404.     The  crazy  Queen  of  Lebanon. 

An  interesting  account  of  Lady  Hester  Stan 
hope  may  be  found  in  Kinglake's  Eothen,  chap, 
viii. 

Page  406.  These  Flemish  pictures  of  old 
days. 

[In  1888  Whittier  wrote  the  following  lines 
on  the  fly-leaf  of  a  copy  of  the  first  edition  of 
Snow-Bound  :  — 


Twenty  years  have  taken  flight 
Since  these  pages  saw  the  light. 

All  home  loves  are  gone, 
But  not  all  with  sadness,  still, 
Do  the  eyes  of  memory  fill 

As  I  gaze  thereon. 

Lone  and  weary  life  seemed  when 
First  these  pictures  of  the  pen 

Grew  upon  my  page  ; 
But  I  still  have  loving  friends 
And  the  peace  our  Father  sends 

Cheers  the  heart  of  age. 

Page  410.  From  the  Bay  State's  graceful 
daughter. 

[The  late  Mrs.  Jettie  Morrill  Wason,  daugh 
ter  of  the  late  Hon.  George  Morrill  of  Ames- 
bury. 

Page  438.     O  Beauty,  old  yet  ever  new. 

"  Too  late  I  loved  Thee,  O  Beauty  of  ancient 
days,  yet  ever  new  !  And  lo  !  Thou  wert  with 
in,  and  I  abroad  searching  for  thee.  Thou  wert 
with  me,  but  I  was  not  with  Thee."  —  August. 
Soliloq.,  Book  X. 

Page  438.     Who  saw  the  Darkness  overflowed. 

"  And  I  saw  that  there  was  an  Ocean  of  Dark- 


5*6 


APPENDIX 


ness  and  Death :  but  an  infinite  Ocean  of  Light 
and  Love  flowed  over  the  Ocean  of  Darkness  : 
And  in  that  I  saw  the  infinite  Love  of  God." 
•—  George  Fox's  Journal. 

Page  438.     The  Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul. 

The  story  of  the  origin  of  this  name,  El  alma 
perdida,  is  thus  related  by  Lieut.  Herndon. 

An  Indian  and  his  wife  went  out  from  the  vil 
lage  to  work  their  chacra,  carrying  their  in 
fant  with  them.  The  woman  went  to  the  spring 
to  get  water,  leaving  the  man  in  charge  of  the 
child ,  with  many  cautions  to  take  good  care  of 
it.  When  she  arrived  at  the  spring,  she  found 
it  dried  up,  and  went  further  to  look  for  an 
other.  The  husband,  alarmed  at  her  long  ab 
sence,  left  the  child  and  went  in  search.  When 
they  returned  the  child  was  gone  ;  and  to  their 
repeated  cries,  as  they  wandered  through  the 
woods  in  search,  they  could  get  no  response  save 
the  wailing  cry  of  this  little  bird  heard  for  the 
first  time,  whose  notes  their  anxious  and  excited 
imagination  syllabled  into  pa-pa,  ma-ma  (the 
present  Quichua  name  of  the  bird).  I  suppose 
the  Spaniards  heard  this  story,  and  with  that 
religious  poetic  turn  of  thought  which  seems 
peculiar  to  this  people,  called  the  bird  '  The 
Lost  Soul.'  "  —  Exploration  of  the  Valley  of  the 
Amazon  made  under  direction  of  the  Navy  De 
partment.  By  William  Lewis  Herndon  and 
Lardner  Gibbon,  Part  I.  p.  156. 

Page  464.     The  Light  that  is  felt. 

[The  origin  of  this  poem  is  explained  in  the 
following  letter  from  Mrs.  George  A.  Palmer, 
of  Elmira,  N.  Y.  — 

"  When  my  oldest  daughter  was  two  and  a 
half  years  old  she  knew  Whittier's  Barefoot 
Boy  by  heart,  thus:  when  I  would  repeat  it  to 
her  the  omission  of  a  line  would  be  instantly  cor 
rected,  as  one  day  she  said  to  me,  'Mamma, 
you  skipted  out "  apples  of  Cusperides."  '  Once, 
in  going  ahead  of  me  in  a  dark  hall,  she  turned 
with  sudden  fear,  and  said,  'Mamma,  take 
hold  of  my  hand,  so  it  will  not  be  so  dark.' 
This  incident  and  the  fact  of  her  affection  for 
Mr.  Whittier's  poetry  was  reported  to  him  by 
a  friend  of  the  family.  My  surprise  and  delight 
were  great  when,  in  April,  1884,  I  received  a 
kind  letter  from  the  poet  and  a  manuscript 
copy  of  the  poem,  which  was  afterward  pub 
lished  in  the  Christmas  number  of  St.  Nicho 
las.  In  his  letter  Mr.  Whittier  said,  "I  am 
glad  to  have  such  a  friend  in  thy  little  girl. 
Her  good  opinion  of  my  verses  is  worth  more 
to  me  than  that  of  a  learned  reviewer.  I  send 
a  rhymed  paraphrase  of  her  own  beautiful 
thought."] 

Page  495.     Mogg  Megone. 

Mogg  Megone,  or  Hegone,  was  a  leader  among 
the  Saco  Indians,  in  the  bloody  war  of  1677. 
He  attacked  and  captured  the  garrison  at  Black 
Point,  October  12th  of  that  year ;  and  cut  off, 
at  the  same  time,  a  party  of  Englishmen  near 
Saco  River.  From  a  deed  signed  by  this  Indian 
in  1664,  and  from  other  circumstances,  it  seems 
that,  previous  to  the  war,  he  had  mingled  much 
with  the  colonists.  On  this  account,  he  was 
probably  selected  by  the  principal  sachems  as 


their  agent  in  the  treaty  signed  In  November. 
1676. 

Page  495.  'Twas  the  gift  of  Castine  to  Mogg 
Megone. 

Baron  de  St.  Castine  came  to  Canada  in  1644. 
Leaving  his  civilized  companions,  he  plunged 
into  the  great  wilderness,  and  settled  among  the 
Penobscot  Indians,  near  the  mouth  of  their  no 
ble  river.  He  here  took  for  his  wives  the  daugh 
ters  of  the  great  Modocawando,  —  the  most  pow 
erful  sachem  of  the  East.  His  castle  was  plun 
dered  by  Governor  Andros,  during  his  reckless 
administration ;  and  the  enraged  Baron  is  sup 
posed  to  have  excited  the  Indians  into  open 
hostility  to  the  English. 

Page  495.    Grey  Jocelyrfs  eye  is  never  sleeping. 

The  owner  and  commander  of  the  garrison  at 
Black  Point,  which  Mogg  attacked  and  plun 
dered.  He  was  an  old  man  at  the  period  to 
which  the  tale  relates. 

Page  495.  Where  Phillips'  men  their  watch  are 
keeping. 

Major  Phillips,  one  of  the  principal  men  of  the 
Colony.  His  garrison  sustained  a  long  and  ter 
rible  siege  by  the  savages.  As  a  magistrate  and 
a  gentleman,  he  exacted  of  his  plebeian  neigh 
bors  a  remarkable  degree  of  deference.  The 
Court  Records  of  the  settlement  inform  us  that 
an  individual  was  fined  for  the  heinous  offence 
of  saying  that  ' '  Major  Phillips's  mare  was  as 
lean  as  an  Indian  dog." 

Page  495.  Steals  Harmon  down  from  the  sands 
of  Yorlc. 

Captain  Harmon,  of  Georgeana,  now  York, 
was  for  many  years  the  terror  of  the  Eastern 
Indians.  In  one  of  his  expeditions  up  the  Ken 
nebec  River,  at  the  head  of  a  party  of  rangers, 
he  discovered  twenty  of  the  savages  asleep  by 
a  large  fire.  Cautiously  creeping  towards  them 
until  he  was  certain  of  his  aim,  he  ordered  his 
men  to  single  out  their  objects.  The  first  dis 
charge  killed  or  mortally  wounded  the  whole 
number  of  the  unconscious  sleepers. 

Page  495.  For  vengeance  left  his  vine-hung 
isle. 

Wood  Island,  near  the  mouth  of  the  Saco.  It 
was  visited  by  the  Sieur  de  Monts  and  Cham- 
plain,  in  1603.  The  following  extract,  from  the 
journal  of  the  latter,  relates  to  it :  "  Having  left 
the  Kennebec,  we  ran  along  the  coast  to  the 
westward,  and  cast  anchor  under  a  small  island, 
near  the  mainland,  where  we  saw  twenty  or 
more  natives.  I  here  visited  an  island,  beauti 
fully  clothed  with  a  fine  growth  of  forest  trees, 
particularly  of  the  oak  and  walnut  ;  and  over 
spread  with  vines,  that,  in  their  season,  produce 
excellent  grapes.  We  named  it  the  island  of 
Bacchus." — Les  Voyages  de  Sieur  Champlain, 
liv.  2,  c.  8. 

Page  495.     The  hunted  outlaw,  Bonython. 

John  Bonython  was  the  son  of  Richard  Bony 
thon,  Gent.,  one  of  the  most  efficient  and  able 
magistrates  of  the  Colony.  John  proved  to  be 
"  a  degenerate  plant."  In  1635,  we  find  by  the 
Court  Records  that,  for  some  offence,  he  was 
fined  40s.  In  1640,  he  was  fined  for  abuse  to 
ward  K.  Gibson,  the  minister,  and  Mary,  his 


NOTES 


527 


wife.  Soon  after  he  was  fined  for  disorderly 
conduct  in  the  house  of  his  father.  In  1045,  the 
"  Great  and  General  Court  adjudged  John  Bony- 
thon  outlawed,  and  incapable  of  any  of  his  Maj 
esty's  laws,  and  proclaimed  him  a  rebel."  (Court 
Records  of  the  Province,  1645.)  In  1651,  he  bade 
defiance  to  the  laws  of  Massachusetts,  and  was 
again  outlawed.  He  acted  independently  of 
all  law  and  authority ;  and  hence,  doubtless, 
his  burlesque  title  of  "  the  Sagamore  of  Saco," 
which  has  come  down  to  the  present  generation 
in  the  following  epitaph  :  — 

Here  lies  Bonython,  the  Sagamore  of  Saco  ; 
He  lived  a  rogue,  and  died  a  knave,  and  went  toHobo- 
moko. 

By  some  means  or  other,  he  obtained  a  large 
estate.  In  this  poem,  I  have  taken  aome  liber 
ties  with  him,  not  strictly  warranted  by  histor 
ical  facts,  although  the  conduct  imputed  to  him 
is  in  keeping  with  his  general  character.  Over 
the  last  years  of  his  life  lingers  a  deep  obscurity. 
Even  the  manner  of  his  death  is  uncertain.  He 
was  supposed  to  have  been  killed  by  the  Indians  ; 
but  this  is  doubted  by  the  able  and  indefatigable 
author  of  the  History  of  Saco  and  Biddeford.  — 
Part  I.  p.  115. 

Page  490.  From  the  leaping  brook  to  the  Saco 
River. 

Foxwell's  Brook  flows  from  a  marsh  or  bog, 
called  the  "  Heath,"  in  Saco,  containing  thirteen 
hundred  acres.  In  this  brook,  and  surrounded 
by  wild  and  romantic  scenery,  is  a  beautiful 
waterfall,  of  more  than  sixty  feet. 

Page  496.     Where  zealous  Hiacoomes  stood. 

Hiacoomes,  the  first  Christian  preacher  on 
Martha's  Vineyard ;  for  a  biography  of  whom 
the  reader  is  referred  to  Increase  Mayhew's  ac 
count  of  the  Praying  Indians,  1726.  The  fol 
lowing  is  related  of  him:  "One  Lord's  day, 
after  meeting,  where  Hiacoomes  had  been 
preaching,  there  came  in  a  Powwaw  very  angry, 
and  said,  '  I  know  all  the  meeting  Indians  are 
liars.  You  say  you  don't  care  for  the  Pow- 
waws ; '  then  culling  two  or  three  of  them  by 
name,  he  railed  at  them,  and  told  them  they 
were  deceived,  for  the  Powwaws  could  kill  all 
the  meeting  Indians,  if  they  set  about  it.  But 
Hiacoomes  told  him  that  he  would  be  in  the 
midst  of  all  the  Powwaws  in  the  island,  and 
they  should  do  the  utmost  they  could  against 
him ;  and  wheri  they  should  do  their  worst  by 
their  witchcraft  to  kill  him,  he  would  with  >ut 
fear  set  himself  against  them,  by  remembering 
Jehovah.  He  told  them  also  he  did  pTit  all  the 
Powwaws  under  his  heel.  Such  was  the  faith 
of  this  good  man.  Nor  were  these  Powwaws 
ever  able  to  do  these  Christian  Indians  any  hurt, 
though  others  were  freqiiently  hurt  and  killed 
by  them."  —  Mayhew,  pp.  6,  7,  c.  1. 

Page  407.  Because  she  cries  with  an  ache  in 
her  tooth. 

"  The  tooth-ache,"  says  Roger  Williams  in 
his  observations  upon  the  langnage  and  customs 
of  the  New  England  tribes,  "is  the  only  paine 
which  will  force  their  stoute  hearts  to  cry."  He 
afterwards  remarks  that  even  the  Indian  women 


never  cry  as  he  has  heard  "  some  of  their  men 
in  this  paine." 

Page  498.  Wuttamuttata,  "  Let  us  drink." 
Weekan,  "  It  is  sweet."  Vide  Roger  Williams'a 
Key  to  the  Indian  Language,  "  in  that  parte  of 
America  called  New  England."  —  London,  1643V 
p.  35. 

Page  498.  Wetuomanit,  —  a  house  god,  or 
demon.  "They  —  the  Indians  —  have  given 
me  the  names  of  thirty-seven  gods  which  I  have, 
all  which  in  their  solemne  Worships  they  invo- 
cate  !  "  —  R.  Williams's  Brief e  Observations  of 
the  Customs,  Manners,  Worships,  etc.,  of  the  Na 
tives,  in  Peace  and  Warre,  in  Life  and  Death: 
on  all  which  is  added  Spiritual  Observations, 
General  and  Particular,  of  Chiefe  and  Special 
use  —  upon  all  occasions  —  to  all  the  English  in 
habiting  these  parts ;  yet  Pleasant  and  Profit 
able  to  the  view  of  all  Mene:  p.  110,  c.  21. 

Page  499.     Which  marks  afar  the  desert  isle. 

Mt.  Desert  Island,  the  Bald  Mountain  upon 
which  overlooks  Frenchman's  and  Penobscot 
Bay.  It  was  upon  this  island  that  the  Jesuits 
made  their  earliest  settlement. 

Page  500.     Half  trembling,  as  he  seeks  to  look. 

Father  Hennepin,  a  missionary  among  the 
Iroquois,  mentions  that  the  Indians  believed 
him  to  be  a  conjurer,  and  that  they  were  partic 
ularly  afraid  of  a  bright  silver  chalice  which  he 
had  in  his  possession.  "The  Indians,"  says 
Pere  Jerome  Lallamant,  "  fear  us  as  the  great 
est  sorcerers  on  earth." 

Page  500.     For  Bomazeenfrom  Tacconock. 

Bomazeen  is  spoken  of  by  Penhallow  as  "  the 
famous  warrior  and  chieftain  of  Norridgewock." 
He  was  killed  in  the  attack  of  the  English  upon 
Norridgewock,  in  1724. 

Page  500.  Like  a  shrouded  ghost  the  Jesuit 
stands. 

Pere  Ralle,  or  Rasles,  was  one  of  tlie  most 
zealous  and  indefatigable  of  that  band  of  Jesuit 
missionaries  who  at  the  beginning  of  the  seven 
teenth  century  penetrated  the  forests  of  Amer 
ica,  with  the  avowed  object  of  converting  the 
heathen.  The  first  religious  mission  of  the  Jes 
uits  to  the  savages  in  North  America  was  in 
1611.  The  zeal  of  the  fathers  for  the  conver 
sion  of  the  Indians  to  the  Catholic  faith  knew 
no  bounds.  For  this  they  plunged  into  the 
depths  of  the  wilderness ;  habituated  them 
selves  to  all  the  hardships  and  privations  of  the 
natives ;  suffered  cold,  hunger,  and  some  of 
them  death  itself,  by  the  extremest  tortures. 
Pere  Brebeuf,  after  laboring  in  the  cause  of 
his  mission  for  twenty  years,  together  with  his 
companion,  Pere  Lallamant,  was  burned  ali/e. 
To  these  might  be  added  the  names  of  those 
Jesuits  who  were  put  to  death  by  the  Iroquois, 
—  Daniel,  Gamier,  Buteaux,  La  Riborerde, 
Goupil,  Constantin,  and  Liegeouis.  "For 
bed,"  says  Father  Lallamant,  in  his  Relation  de 
ce  qui  s'est  dansle  pays  des  Hurons,  1640,  c.  3, 
"  we  have  nothing  but  a  miserable  piece  of  bark 
of  a  tree  ;  for  nourishment,  a  handful  or  two  of 
corn,  either  roasted  or  soaked  in  water,  which 
seldom  satisfies  our  hunger  ;  and  after  all,  not 
venturing  to  perform  even  the  ceremonies  of 


528 


APPENDIX 


our  religion  without  being  considered  as  sorcer 
ers."  Their  success  among  the  natives,  how 
ever,  by  no  means  equalled  their  exertions. 
Pere  Lallamant  says :  "  With  respect  to  adult 
persons,  in  good  health,  there  is  little  apparent 
success ;  on  the  contrary,  there  have  been  no 
thing  but  storms  and  whirlwinds  from  that 
quarter." 

Sebastian  Ralle  established  himself,  some 
time  about  the  year  1670,  at  Norridgewock, 
where  he  continued  more  than  forty  years.  He 
was  accused,  and  perhaps  not  without  justice, 
of  exciting  his  Praying  Indians  against  the  Eng 
lish,  whom  he  looked  upon  as  the  enemies  not 
only  of  his  king,  but  also  of  the  Catholic  reli 
gion.  He  was  killed  by  the  English  in  1724,  at 
the  foot  of  the  cross  which  his  own  hands  had 
planted.  His  Indian  church  was  broken  up, 
and  its  members  either  killed  outright  or  dis 
persed. 

In  a  letter  written  by  Ralle  to  his  nephew  he 
gives  the  following  account  of  his  church  and 
his  own  labors :  k '  All  my  converts  repair  to 
the  church  regularly  twice  every  day :  first, 
very  early  in  the  morning,  to  attend  mass,  and 
again  in  the  evening,  to  assist  in  the  prayers  at 
sunset.  As  it  is  necessary  to  fix  the  imagina 
tion  of  savages,  whose  attention  is  easily  dis 
tracted,  I  have  composed  prayers,  calculated  to 
inspire  them  with  just  sentiments  of  the  august 
sacrifice  of  our  altars :  they  chant,  or  at  least 
recite  them  aloud,  during  mass.  Besides 
preaching  to  them  on  Sundays  and  saints'  days, 
I  seldom  let  a  working-day  pass  without  mak 
ing  a  concise  exhortation,  for  the  purpose  of 
inspiring  them  with  horror  at  those  vices  to 
which  they  are  most  addicted,  or  to  confirm 
them  in  the  practice  of  some  particular  virtue." 
—  Vide  Lettres  Ediftantes  et  Cur.,  vol.  vi.  p. 
127. 

Page  503.  Palp  priest  !  what  proud  and  lofty 
dreams. 

The  character  of  Ralle  has  probably  never 
6een  correctly  delineated.  By  his  brethren  of 
the  Romish  Church,  he  has  been  nearly  apo 
theosized.  On  the  other  hand,  our  Puritan  his 
torians  have  represented  him  as  a  demon  in 
human  form.  He  was  undoubtedly  sincere  in 
his  devotion  to  the  interests  of  his  church,  and 
not  over-scrupulous  as  to  the  means  of  advan 
cing  those  interests.  "  The  French,"  says  the 
author  of  the  History  of  Saco  and  Biddeford, 
"after  the  peace  of  1713,  secretly  promised  to 
supply  the  Indians  with  arms  and  ammunition, 
if  they  would  renew  hostilities.  Their  princi 
pal  agent  was  the  celebrated  Ralle,  the  French 
Jesuit."  — p.  215. 

Page  504.  Where  are  De  Eouville  and  Cas- 
»ine. 

Hertel  de  Rouville  was  an  active  and  unspar 
ing  enemy  of  the  English.  He  was  the  leader 
of  the  combined  French  and  Indian  forces 
which  destroyed  Deerfield  and  massacred  its 
inhabitants,  in  1703.  He  was  afterwards  killed 
in  the  attack  upon  Haverhill.  Tradition  says 
that,  on  examining  his  dead  body,  his  head 
ind  face  were  found  to  be  perfectly  smooth. 


without  the    slightest  appearance   e>f    hair  ot 
beard. 

Page  504.      Cowesassf  —  tawhich  wessaseen? 
Are  you  afraid  ?  —  why  fear  you  ? 


IV.     A  LIST  OF  MR.  WHITTIER'S 
POEMS 

ARRANGED   CHRONOLOGICALLY 

THIS  list  follows  the  dates  given  with  the 
poems.  In  the  few  cases  where  the  dates 
have  not  been  determined  exactly,  the  po 
ems  are  placed  in  the  group  with  which  they 
were  published  when  collected  in  volumes. 
The  order  is  by  years,  and  no  attempt  has 
here  been  made  to  preserve  the  exact  order 
of  composition  under  the  year. 

1825.     The  Exile's  Departure. 
The  Deity. 

The  Vale  of  the  Merrimac. 
Benevolence. 

1827.  Ocean. 

1828.  The  Sicilian  Vespers. 
The  Earthquake. 

The  Song  of  the  Vermonters. 

1829.  The  Spirit  of  the  North. 
Judith  at  the  Tent  of  Holof  ernes. 
Metacom. 

The  Drunkard  to  his  Bottle. 
The  Past  and  Coming  Year. 

1830.  The  Fair  Quakeress. 
Bolivar. 

The  Vaudois  Teacher. 
The  Star  of  Bethlehem. 
The  Frost  Spirit. 

1831.  Isabella  of  Austria. 
The  Fratricide. 

The  Cities  of  the  Plain. 

1832.  Isabel. 

Stanzas  :  "  Bind  up  thy  tresses." 
To  William  Lloyd  Garrison. 
To    a    Poetical    Trio    in    the    City    of 
Gotham. 

1833.  The  Female  Martyr. 
The  Missionary. 

The  Call  of  the  Christian. 
Extract    from    "A  New   England   Le 
gend." 
Toussaint  L'Ouverture. 

1834.  Mogg  Megone. 
The  Crucifixion. 

Hymn  :    "O  Thou  whose  presence  went 

before." 

The  Slave-Ships. 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  B.  Storrs. 
Expostulation 
A  Lament. 

1835.  The  Demon  of  the  Study. 
The  Yankee  Girl. 

The  Hunters  of  Men. 
Stanzas  for  the  Times. 
The  Prisoner  for  Debt. 
1836. 


CHRONOLOGICAL   LIST   OF   MR.   WHITTIER'S   POEMS       529 


Clerical  Oppressors. 

A  Summons. 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley. 

The  Moral  Warfare. 

1837.  Massachusetts. 
The  Fountain. 
Palestine. 

Hymns  from  the  French  of  Lamartine. 
Hymn :     "0    Holy    Father,    just    and 

true." 
Ritner. 

The  Pastoral  Letter. 
Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  Oliver  Torrey. 

1838.  Pentucket. 

The  Familist's  Hymn. 
Pennsylvania  Hall. 
Album  Verses. 

The  Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mo 
ther. 
The  Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time. 

1839.  The  New  Year. 
The  Relic. 

The  World's  Convention. 

1840.  To ,  with  a  copy  of  Woolman's 

Journal. 

1841.  The  Cypress-Tree  of  Ceylon. 
St.  John. 

The  Exiles. 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis. 

The  Norsemen. 

Memories. 

The  Merrimac. 

Lucy  Hooper. 

To  a  Friend. 

Leggett's  Monument. 

Democracy. 

1842.  Follan. 

The  Gallows. 
Raphael. 

1843.  The  Knight  of  St.  John. 
Cassandra  Southwick. 

The  New  Wife  and  the  Old. 

Hampton  Beach. 

Ego. 

To  J.  P. 

Chalkley  Hall. 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia. 

The  Christian  Slave. 

Seed-Time  and  Harvest. 

To  the  Reformers  of  England. 

The  Human  Sacrifice. 

1844.  The  Pumpkin. 

The  Bridal  of  Pennacook. 

Ezekiel. 

Channing. 

To  Massachusetts. 

The  Sentence  of  John  L.  Brown. 

To  Faneuil  Hall. 

Texas. 
1845      New  Hampshire. 

At  Washington. 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death  of  his  Sister. 

Gone. 

The  Shoemakers. 

The  Fisherman. 

The  Lumbermen. 
1846.     The  Ship-Builders. 


The  Pine-Tree. 

Lines  from  a  Letter  to  a  Young  Clerical 

Friend. 
To  Ronge. 
Forgiveness. 
The  Branded  Hand. 
The  Reformer. 
To  a  Southern  Statesman. 
Daniel  Neall. 
A  Letter  supposed  to  be  written  by  the 

Chairman  of    the   Central  Clique   at 

Concord,  N.  H. 
The  Freed  Islands. 

1847.  The  Lost  Statesman. 

The  Angels  of  Buena  Vista. 

Barclay  of  Ury. 

York'town. 

To  Delaware. 

Song  of  Slaves  in  the  Desert. 

The  Huskers. 

The  Drovers. 

Daniel  Wheeler. 

My  Soul  and  I. 

To  my  Sister. 

The  Wife  of  Manoah  to  her  Husband, 

The  Angel  of  Patience. 

What  the  Voice  said. 

A  Dream  of  Summer. 

My  Thanks. 

Randolph  of  Roanoke. 

Proem. 

1848.  The  Slaves  of  Martinique. 

The  Curse  of  the  Charter-Breakers. 

The  Wish  of  To-Day. 

Paean. 

The  Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day. 

The  Crisis. 

The  Reward. 

The  Holy  Land. 

Worship. 

The  Peace  Convention  at  Brussels. 

1849.  Calef  in  Boston. 
To  Pius  IX. 

On    Receiving    an    Eagle's   Quill  from 

Lake  Superior. 
Kathleen. 
Our  State. 

To  Fredrika  Bremer. 
The  Men  of  Old. 
The  Christian  Tourists. 
The  Lakeside. 
Autumn  Thoughts. 
The  Legend  of  St.  Mark. 

1850.  The  Well  of  Loch  Maree. 
Ichabod. 

In  the  Evil  Day. 

Elliott. 

The  Hill-Top. 

To  Avis  Keene. 

A  Sabbath  Scene. 

Derne. 

Lines  on  the  Portrait  of  a  Celebrated 

Publisher. 
All 's  Well. 

1851.  Remembrance. 

The  Chapel  of  the  Hermits. 
The  Prisoners  of  Naples. 


530 


APPENDIX 


1852. 


1853. 


1854. 


1855. 


1856. 


1857. 


1858. 


To  my  Old  Schoolmaster. 

Invocation. 

Wordsworth. 

In  Peace. 

Kussuth. 

To :  Lines  written  after  a  Summer 

Day's  Excursion. 

What  State  Street  said. 

Pictures. 

The  Cross. 

First-Day  Thoughts. 

Questions  of  Life. 

April. 

The  Disenthralled. 

The  Peace  of  Europe. 

Eva. 

Astrsea. 

Tauler. 

Summer  by  the  Lakeside. 

Trust. 

The  Dream  of  Pio  Nono. 

The  Hero. 

Rantoul. 

Official  Piety. 

The  Voices. 

Burns. 

William  Forster. 

Charles  Sumner. 

The  Rendition. 

The  Haschish. 

The  Fruit  Gift. 

Maud  Muller. 

The  Hermit  of  the  Thebaid. 

Letter  from  a  Missionary  of  the  Metho 
dist  Episcopal  Church,  South. 

The  Kansas  Emigrants. 

A  Memory. 

The  Barefoot  Boy. 

My  Dream. 

Flowers  in  Winter. 

Arisen  at  Last. 

For  Righteousness'  Sake. 

Inscription  on  a  Sun- Dial. 

The  Ranger. 

The  Mayflower. 

The  Conquest  of  Finland. 

The  New  Exodns. 

A  Lay  of  Old  Time. 

A  Song-,  inscribed  to  the  Fre'mont  Clubs. 

A  Fre'mont  Campaign  Song. 

What  of  the  Dav. 

A  Song  for  the  Time. 

The  Pass  of  the  Sierra. 

The  Panorama. 

Burial  of  Barber. 

To  Pennsylvania. 

Mary  Garvin. 

Moloch  in  State  Street. 

The  First  Flowers. 

The  Sycamores. 

Mabel  Martin, 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride. 

The  Garrison  of  Cape  Ann. 

The  Last  Walk  in  Autumn. 

The  Gift  of  Tritemius. 

My  Namesake. 

To  James  T.  Fields. 


The  Palm-Tree. 

From  Perugia. 

Le  Marais  du  Cygne. 

The  Eve  of  Election. 

The  Old  Burying- around. 

Trinitas. 

The  bisters. 

The  Pipes  at  Lucknow. 

The  Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery. 

Telling  the  Bees. 

A  Song  of  Harvest. 

George  B.  Cheever. 

The  Cable  Hymn. 

1859.  Kenoza  Lake. 
The  Preacher. 

The  Red  River  Voyageur. 

The  Double-Headed  Snake  of  Newbury 

"  The  Rock  "  in  El  Ghor. 

In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  Sturge. 

The  Over-Heart. 

My  Psalm. 

The  Memory  of  Burns. 

Brown  of  Ossawatomie. 

On  a  Prayer-Book. 

The  Prophecy  of  Samuel  SewalL 

For  an  Autumn  Festival. 

1860.  The  Truce  of  Piscataqua. 
The  Shadow  and  the  Light. 
My  Playmate. 

The  River  Path. 

Italy. 

Naples. 

The  Summons. 

The  Quaker  Alumni. 

The  Quakers  are  out. 

1861.  To  William  H.  Seward. 
Thy  Will  be  done. 

To  John  C.  Fre'mont. 

A  Word  for  the  Hour. 

"  Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott." 

Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision. 

Our  River. 

A  Legend  of  the  Lake. 

1862.  Amy  Wentworth. 
At  Port  Royal. 

The  Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul. 

Mountain  Pictures. 

To  Englishmen. 

The  Watchers. 

The  Waiting. 

The  Battle  Autumn  of  1862. 

Astrsea  at  the  Capitol. 

1863.  The  Proclamation. 
The  Answer. 

To  Samuel  E.  Sewall  and   Harriet  Yf 

Sewall. 
A  Memorial. 

A  tulrew  Rykman's  Prayer. 
The  Countess. 
Barbara  Frietchie. 
Anniversary  Poem. 
Hymn  snner  at  Christmas  by  the  Scholars 

of  St.  Helena's  Island,  S.  C. 
Mithridates  at  Chios, 

1864.  The  Vanishers. 
What  the  Birds  said. 
The  Brother  of  Mercy. 


CHRONOLOGICAL  LIST  OF  MR.   WHITTIER'S   POEMS     53  T 


The  Wreck  of  Rivermouth, 

Bryant  on  his  Birthday. 

Thomas  Starr  King. 

Hymn  for  the  Opening  of  Thomas  Starr 
King's  House  of  Worship. 

Lines  on  Leaving  Appledore. 
i865.     Revisited. 

To  the  Thirty-ninth  Congress. 

The  Changeling. 

The  Grave  by  the  Lake. 

Kallundborg  Church. 

Hymn  for  the  Celebration  of  Emancipa 
tion  at  Newburyport. 

Laus  Deo. 

The  Mantle  of  St.  John  de  Matha. 

The  Peace  Autumn. 

The  Eternal  Goodness 
1866      Snow-Bound. 

The  Common  Question. 

Our  Master, 

Abraham  Davenport. 

Lines  on  a  Fly-Leaf. 

The  Maids  of  Attitash. 

The  Dead  Ship  of  Harps  well. 

Letter  to  Lucy  Larcom. 

1867.  George  L.  Stearns. 
The  Worship  of  Nature. 
Freedom  in  Bra/il. 
The  Palatine. 

The  Tent  on  the  Beach. 

1868.  The  Hive  at  Gettysburg. 
Divine  Compassion. 
The  Clear  Vision. 

The  Meeting. 

The  Two  Rabbins. 

Among  the  Hills. 

The  Dole  of  Jarl  Thorkoll. 

Hymn  for    the   House   of    Worship    at 

Georgetown. 
An  Autograph. 

1869.  Howard  at  Atlanta 
Garibaldi. 
Norumbega. 

The  Pageant. 

1870.  Miriam 

In  School-Days. 

To  Lydia  Maria  Child. 

My  Triumph. 

Nauhaught,  the  Deacon. 

The  Prayer-Seeker. 

The  Laurels. 

A  Spiritual  Manifestation 

To  Lucy  Larcom. 
I871u     The  Sisters. 

Marguerite. 

The  Robin. 

The  Singer. 

Disarmament. 

How  Mary  Grew. 

Chicago,, 

My  Birthday. 
1872      The  Pressed  Gentian. 

A  Woman. 

The  Pennsylvania  Pilgrim. 

The  Three  Bells. 

King  V  olmer  and  Elsie. 

The  Brewing  of  Soma. 


Hymn    for    the  Opening  of    Plymouth 
Church, 

1873.  Conductor  Bradley. 
John  Underbill. 

A  Mystery, 

In  Quest. 

The  Friend's  Burial. 

The  Prayer  of  Agassiz. 

A  Christmas  Carmen. 

1874.  Kinsman. 

The  Golden  W  edding  of  Longwood. 

Vesta. 

A  Sea  Dream. 

Hazel  Blossoms, 

Summer. 

1875.  "  I  was  a  Stranger  and  ye  took  me  in.* 
The  Two  Angels. 

The  Healer. 
Child  Songs. 
Lexington. 
The  Library. 
A  Farewell, 

1876.  June  on  the  Merrimac. 
Sunset  on  the  Bearcamp. 
Centennial  Hymn. 

1877.  Giving  and  Taking. 
Hymn  of  the  Dunkers. 
The  Henchman. 

In  the  "  Old  South," 

Red  Riding-Hood. 

The  Witch  of  Wenham. 

The  Problem. 

Thiers. 

Fitz-Greene  Halleck. 

King  Solomon  and  the  Ants. 

In  Response. 

At  School-Close. 

1878.  The  Seeking  of  the  Waterfall 
At  Eventide. 

Oriental  Maxims. 
The  Vision  of  Echard. 
William  Francis  Bartlett. 
Hymn  of  the  Children, 

1879.  The  Khan's  Devil. 
The  Trailing  Arbutus. 

The  Dead  Feast  of  the  Kol-Folk 

Inscription  on  a  Fountain. 

Our  Autocrat. 

Bayard  Taylor. 

The  Emancipation  Group. 

Garrison. 

The  Landmarks. 

1880.  My  Trust. 

The  Lost  Occasion. 

Voyage  of  the  Jettie. 

A  Name. 

The  King's  Mif^ive. 

St.  Martin's  i:  ummer. 

Valuation. 

The  Minister's  Daughter. 

The  Jubilee  Singers. 

1881.  Within  the  Gate. 
The  Book. 
Rabbi  Ishmael. 
Greeting. 

The  Rock  Tornb  of  Bradot* 
Help. 


53* 


APPENDIX 


Requirement. 
Utterance ., 
By  their  Works. 
The  Word. 
The  Memory 

1882.  The  Bay  of  Seven  Islands. 
Garden, 

An  Autograph, 

An  Easter  Flower  Gift. 

Godspeed. 

The  Wishing  Bridge 

Storm  on  Lake  Asquam. 

On  a  Fly-Leaf  of  Longfellow's  Poems. 

At  Last. 

A  Greeting. 

The  Poet  and  the  Children. 

Wilson. 

The  Mystic's  Christmas. 

1883.  Our  Country. 

St.  Gregory's  Guest. 

How  the  Women  went  from  Dover. 

What  the  Travellei  -aid  at  Sunset. 

A  Summer  Pilgrimage 

Winter  Roses. 

1884.  The  Light  that  is  Felt. 
The  Two  Loves. 

The  "  Story  of  Ida." 

Samuel  E.  Sewall. 

Sweet  Fern. 

Abram  Morrison. 

Birchbrook  Mill. 

Lines  written  in  ar:  Album. 

1885.  Hymns  of  the  Brahmo  Somaj 
The  Two  Elizabeths. 
Requital. 

The  Wood  Giant. 

The  Reunion. 

Adjustment. 

An  Artist  of  the  Beautiful. 

A  Welcome  to  Lowell. 

1886.  How  the  Robin  came 


Banished  from  Massachusetts. 

The  Homestead. 

Revelation. 

The  Bartholdi  Statue. 

Norumbega  Hall. 

Mulford. 

To  a  Cape  Ann  Schooner. 

Samuel  J.  Til  den. 

A  Day's  Journey. 

1887.  On  the  Big  Horn. 
A  Legacy. 

1888.  The  Brown  Dwarf  of  Riigen. 

Lydia  H.  Sigourney,  Inscription  on  Tab 

let. 

One  of  the  Signers. 
The  Christmas  of  1888. 

1889.  The  Vow  of  Washington. 

0.  W.  Holmes  on  his  Eightieth  Birth 
day. 

1890.  R.  S.  S.,  At  Deer  Island  on  the  Merri 

mac. 

Burning  Drift- Wood. 
The  Captain's  Well. 
Haverhill. 
ToG.  G. 

Milton,  on  Memorial  Window. 
The  Last  Eve  of  Summer. 
To  E.  C.  S. 

1891.  James  Russell  Lowell. 

Preston  Powers,   Inscription  for    Bass 

Relief. 

The  Birthday  Wreath. 
Between  the  Gates. 

1892.  An  Outdoor  Reception. 
The  Wind  of  March. 

To  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes. 
[Date    unknown.]     The  Home  Coming  of  the 

Bride. 

Mrs.  Choate's  House- Warming. 
A  Fragment. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


A  BEAUTIFUL  and  happy  girl,  386. 

A  bending  staff  I  would  not  break,  432. 

A  blush  as  of  roses,  320. 

Above,  below,  in  sky  and  sod,  436. 

Accept  this  book,  whose  pages  hold,  523. 

A  Christian  !  going,  gone,  289. 

A  cloud,  like  that  the  old-time  Hebrew  saw, 
165. 

Across  the  frozen  marshes,  377. 

Across  the  sea  I  heard  the  groans,  381. 

Across  the  Stony  Mountains,  o'er  the  desert's 
drouth  and  sand,  308. 

A  dirge  is  wailing  from  the  Gulf  of  storm- 
vexed  Mexico,  491. 

A  drear  and  desolate  shore,  127. 

A  few  brief  years  have  passed  away,  298. 

After  your  pleasant  morning  travel,  516. 

Against  the  sunset's  glowing  wall,  425. 

Against  the  wooded  hills  it  stands,  1,35. 

A  gold  fringe  on  the  purpling  hem,  161. 

All  day  the  darkness  and  the  cold,  144. 

All  grim  and  soiled  and  brown  with  tan,  364. 

"  All  hail !  "  the  bells  of  Christmas  rang,  462. 

All  night  above  their  rocky  bed,  321. 

"  All  ready  ?  "  cried  the  captain,  265. 

All  things  are  Thine :  no  gift  have  we,  232. 

Along  Crane  River's  sunny  slopes,  117. 

Along  the  aisle  where  prayer  was  made,  448. 

Along  the  roadside,  like  the  flowers  of  gold,  84. 

Amidst  these  glorious  works  of  Thine,  227. 

Amidst  Thuringia's  wooded  hills  she  dwelt, 
134. 

Amidst  thy  sacred  effigies,  349. 

Among  their  graven  shapes  to  whom,  211. 

Among  the  legends  sung  or  said,  130. 

Among  the  thousands  who  with  hail  and  cheer, 
477. 

A  moony  breadth  of  virgin  face,  310. 

And  have  they  spurned  thy  word,  508. 

Andrew  Rykman  's  dead  and  gone,  439. 

"And  where  now,  Bayard,  will  thy  footsteps 
tend,  212. 

A  night  of  wonder  !  piled  afar,  508. 

Annie  and  Rboda,  sisters  twain,  100. 

A  noble  life  is  in  thy  care,  481. 

A  noteless  stream,  the  Birchbrook  runs,  133. 

Another  hand  is  beckoning  us,  178. 

A  picture  memory  brings  to  me,  411. 

A  pious  magistrate  !  sound  his  praise  through 
out,  315. 

Around  Sebagp's  lonely  lake,  11. 

As  Adam  did  in  Paradise,  219. 

As  a  guest  who  may  not  stay,  214. 

A  score  of  years  had  come  and  gone,  115. 

A  shallow  stream,  from  fountains,  410. 

As  Islam's  Prophet,  when  his  last  day  drew, 
135. 


As  o'er  his  furrowed  fields  which  lie,  354. 
A  sound  as  if  from  bells  of  silver,  158. 
A  sound  of  tumult  troubles  all  the  air,  322. 
As  they  who,  tossing  midst  the  storm  at  night. 

304. 
As  they  who  watch  by  sick-beds  find  relief, 

79. 

A  strength  Thy  service  cannot  tire,  300. 
A  strong  and  mighty  Angel,  344. 
A  tale  for  Roman  guides  to  tell,  132. 
A  tender  child  of  summers  three,  464. 
At  morn  I  prayed,  "  I  fain  would  see,  434. 
A  track  of  moonlight  on  a  quiet  lake,  188. 

Bards  of  the  island  city  !  —  where  of  old,  510. 

Beams  of  noon,  like  burning  lances,  through 
the  tree-tops  flash  and  glisten,  305. 

Bearer  of  Freedom's  holy  light,  351. 

Bear  him,  comrades,  to  his  grave,  319. 

Before  my  drift-wood  fire  I  sit,  471. 

Before  the  Ender  comes,  whose  charioteer,  462. 

Behind  us  at  our  evening  meal,  443. 

Believe  me,  Lucy  Larcom,  it  gives  me  real  sor 
row,  514. 

Beneath  the  low-hung  night  cloud,  114. 

Beneath  the  moonlight  and  the  snow,  408. 

Beneath  thy  skies,  November,  323. 

Beside  a  stricken  field  I  stood,  335. 

Beside  that  milestone,  where  the  level  sun. 
409. 

Between  the  gates  of  birth  and  death,  476. 

Bind  up  thy  tresses,  thou  beautiful  one,  494. 

Bland  as  the  morning  breath  of  June,  143. 

Blessings  on  thee,  little  man,  396. 

Blest  land  of  Judaea  !  thrice  hallowed  of  song, 
419. 

Blossom  and  greenness,  making  all,  475. 

"  Bring  out  your  dead  !  "    The  midnight  street, 

"  Build  at  Kallundborg  by  the  sea,  255. 

But  what  avail  inadequate  words  to  reach,  461. 

By  fire  and  cloud,  across  the  desert  sand,  377. 

Call  him  not  heretic  whose  works  attest,  460. 
Calm  on  the  breast  of  Loch  Maree,  39. 
Calmly  the  night  came  down,  487. 
Champion  of  those  who  groan  beneath,  262. 
Climbing  a  path  which  leads  back  never  more, 

473. 

Close  beside  the  meeting  waters,  483. 
Conductor  Bradley,  (always  may  his  name,  117. 

Dark  the  halls,  and  cold  the  feast,  21. 
Dead  Petra  in  her  hill-tomb  sleeps,  435. 
Dear  Anna,  when  I  brought  her  veil,  483. 
Dear  friends,  who  read  the  world  aright,  188. 
Dear  Sister  I  while  the  wise  and  sage,  391. 


533 


534 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


Dream  not,  0  Soul,  that  easy  is  the  task,  461. 
Dry  the  tears  for  holy  Eva,  218. 

Earthly  arms  no  more  uphold  him,  479. 
Ere  down  yon  blue  Carpathian  hills,  17. 

Fair  islands  of  the  sunny  sea  I  midst  all  rejoi 
cing  things,  480. 

Fair  Nature's  priestesses !   to  whom,  188. 

Far  away  in  the  twilight  time,  61. 

Far  from  his  close  and  noisome  cell,  355. 

Fate  summoned,  in  gray-bearded  age,  to  act, 
210. 

Father !  to  thy  suffering  poor,  422. 

Fold  thy  hands,  thy  work  is  over,  482. 

Fond  scenes,  which  delighted  my  youthful  ex 
istence,  484. 

For  ages  on  our  river  borders,  153. 

For  the  fairest  maid  in  Hampton,  251. 

For  weeks  the  clouds  had  raked  the  hills,  85. 

Friend  of  mine  !  whose  lot  was  cast,  392. 

Friend  of  my  many  years,  415. 

Friend  of  my  soul !  as  with  moist  eye,  176. 

Friend  of  the  Slave,  and  yet  the  friend  of  all, 
300. 

From  Alton  Bay  to  Sandwich  Dome,  167. 

From  gold  to  gray,  378. 

From  pain  and  peril,  by  land  and  main,  468. 

From  purest  wells  of  English  undefiled,  473. 

From  the  green  Amesbury  hill  which  bears  the 
name,  127. 

From  the  heart  of  Waumbek  Methna,  from 
the  lake  that  never  fails,  49. 

From  the  hills  of  home  forth  looking,  far  be 
neath  the  tent-like  span,  52. 

From  these  wild  rocks  I  look  to-day,  226. 

From  the  well-springs  of  Hudson,  the  sea-cliffs 
of  Maine,  220. 

From  Yorktown's  ruins,  ranked  and  still,  302. 

Gallery  of  sacred  pictures  manifold,  460. 

"  Get  ye  up  from  the  wrath  of  God's  terrible 

day,  417. 

Gift  from  the  cold  and  silent  past,  9. 
God  bless  New  Hampshire !   from  her  granite 

peaks,  293. 

God  bless  ye,  brothers  !  in  the  fight,  354. 
God  called  the  nearest  angels  who  dwell  with 

Him  above,  455. 

God's  love  and  peace  be  with  thee,  where,  189. 
Gone  before  us,  O  our  brother,  170. 
Gone,  gone,  — sold  and  gone,  278. 
Gone  hath  the  spring,  with  all  its  flowers,  144. 
Gone  to  thy  Heavenly  Father's  rest,  274. 
Graceful  in  name  and  in  thyself,  our  river,  474. 
Gray  searcher  of  the  upper  air,  490. 
*'  Great  peace  in  Europe  !    Order  reigns,  373. 

Hail,  heavenly  gift !   within  the  human  breast, 

485. 

Hail  to  Posterity,  108. 

Hands  off \  thou  tithe-fat  plunderer!  play,  185. 
Happy  young  friends,  sit  by  me,  136. 
Haunted  of  Beauty,  like  the  marvellous  youth, 

216. 
Have  I  not  voyaged,  friend  beloved,  with  thee, 

451. 


Have  ye  heard  of  our  hunting,  o'er  mountain 

and  glen,  270. 

Heap  high  the  farmer's  wintry  hoard,  364. 
He    comes,  —  he    comes,  —  the    Frost    Spirit 

comes,  141. 

Heed  how  thou  livest.     Do  no  act  by  day,  462. 
He  had  bowed  down  to  drunkenness,  374. 
He  has  done  the  work  of  a  true  man,  204. 
Here  is  the  place  ;  right  over  the  hill,  59. 
He  rests  with  the  immortals ;    his  journey  hai 

been  long,  481. 

Here,  while  the  loom  of  Winter  weaves,  395. 
Her  fingers  shame  the  ivory  keys,  80. 
Her  window  opens  to  the  bay,  250. 
He  stood  on  the  brow  of  the  well-known  hill 

493. 

His  laurels  fresh  from  song  and  lay,  213. 
Ho  —  all  to  the    borders !    Yermonters,  come 

down,  509. 

Ho  !  thou  who  seekest  late  and  long,  290. 
Ho  1  workers  of  the  old  time  styled,  357. 
Hoot !  —  daur  ye  shaw  ye're  face  again,  490. 
How  bland    and  sweet    the  greeting  of   this 

breeze,  177. 

How  has  New  England's  romance  fled,  5. 
How  smiled  the  land  of  France,  173. 
How  strange  to  greet,  this  frosty  morn,  148. 
How  sweetly  come  the  holy  psalms,  199. 
How  sweetly  on  the  wood-girt  town,  8. 
Hurrah  !  the  seaward  breezes,  358. 
Hushed  now  the  sweet  consoling  tongue,  516. 

I  ask  not  now  for  gold  to  gild,  431. 

I  call  the  old  time  back  :  I  bring  my  lay,  62. 

I  did  but  dream.     I  never  knew,  447. 

I  do  believe,  and  yet,  in  grief,  40. 

I  do  not  love  thee,  Isabel,  and  yet  thou  art 
most  fair,  494. 

If    I  have  seemed    more  prompt  to    censure 
wrong,  196. 

I  give  thee  joy  !  —  I  know  to  thee,  201. 

I  have  been  thinking  of  the  victims  bound^ 
372. 

I  have  not  felt,  o'er  seas  of  sand,  430. 
heard  the  train's  shrill  whistle  call,  315. 
know  not,  Time  and  Space  so  intervene,  81. 
love  the  old  melodious  lays,  1. 
mmortal  Love,  forever  full,  443. 
mourn  no  more  my  vanished  years,  397. 
n  calm  and  cool  and  silence,  once  again,  433. 

I  need  not  ask  thee,  for  my  sake,  203. 

In  my  dream,  methought  I  trod,  395. 

In  sky  and  wave  the  white  clouds  swam,  253. 

In  that  black  forest,  where,  when  day  is  done, 
43H. 

In  the  fair  land  o'erwatched  by  Ischia's  moun 
tains,  199. 

In  the  minister's  morning  sermon,  459. 

In  the  old  days  (a  custom  laid  aside,  259. 

In  the  old  Hebrew  myth  the  lion's  frame,  348. 

In  the  outskirts  of  the  village,  56. 

In  the  solemn  days  of  old,  371. 

In  trance  and  dream  of  old,  God's  prophet  saw. 
205. 

In  Westminster's  royal  halls,  306. 

1  said  I  stood  upon  thy  grave,  316. 

I  shall  not  soon  forget  that  sight,  387. 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


535 


I  sing  the  Pilgrim  of  a  softer  clime,  103. 

is  it  the  palm,  the  cocoa-palm,  155. 

I  spread  a  scanty  board  too  late,  412. 

[s  this  the  land  our  fathers  loved,  271. 

Is  this  thy  voice  whose  treble  notes  of  fear,  294. 

It  chanced  that  while  the  pious  troops  of  France, 
375. 

It  is  done,  345. 

Its  windows  flashing  to  the  sky,  69. 

It  was  late  in  mild  October,  and  the  long  autum 
nal  rain,  363. 

I  wait  and  watch  ;  before  my  eyes,  398. 

I  wandered  lonely  where  the  pine-trees  made, 
1G4. 

I  would  I  were  a  painter,  for  the  sake,  156. 

I  would  not  sin,  in  this  half-playful  strain,  242. 

I  would  the  gift  I  offer  here,  357. 

I  write  my  name  as  one,  413. 

John  Brown  of  Ossawatomie  spake  on  his  dying 

day,  201. 
Just  God !  and  these  are  they,  272. 

Know'st  thou,  0  slave-cursed  land,  337. 

Last  night,  just  as  the  tints  of  autumn's  skjr, 

148. 
Last  week  —  the  Lord  be  praised  for  all  His 

mercies,  318. 

Leagues  north,  as  fly  the  gull  and  auk.  258. 
"  Let  there  be  light !  "  God  spake  of  old,  233. 
Lift  again  the  stately  emblem  on  the  Bay  State's 

rusted  shield,  29:5. 
Light,  warmth,  and  sprouting  greenness,  and 

o'er  all,  146. 
Like  that  ancestral  judge  who  bore  his  name, 

516. 

Long  since,  a  dream  of  heaven  I  had,  448. 
Look  on  him  !  through  his  dungeon  grate,  367. 
Low  in  the  east,  against  a  white,  cold  dawn,  467. 
Luck  to  the  craft  that  bears  this  name  of  mine, 

217. 

Maddened  by  Earth's  wrong  and  evil,  424. 

Maiden  !  with  the  fair  brown  tresses,  171. 

Make,  for  he  loved  thee  well,  our  Merrimac, 
471. 

Maud  Muller  on  a  summer's  day,  47. 

Men  !  if  manhood  still  ye  claim,  292. 

Men  of  the  North-Land  !  where  's  the  manly 
spirit,  273. 

Men  said  at  vespers :  "  All  is  well,"  230, 

'Midst  the  men  and  things  which  will,  413. 

'Midst  the  palace  bowers  of  Hungary,  imperial 
Presburg's  pride,  492. 

Muttering  "  fine  upland  staple,"  prime  Sea- 
Island  finer,"  512. 

My  ear  is  full  of  summer  sounds,  332. 

My  garden  roses  long  ago,  238. 

My  heart  was  heavy,  for  its  trust  had  been,  390. 

My  ladv  walks  her  morning  round,  122. 

My  old  Welsh  neighbor  over  the  way,  102. 

My  thoughts  are  all  in  yonder  town,  452. 

Nauhaught,  the  Indian  deacon,  who  of  old,  99. 
'Neath  skies  that  winter  never  knew,  233. 
Never  in  tenderer  quiet  lapsed  the  day,  103. 


Night  on  the  city  of  the  Moor,  311. 

Night  was  down  among  the  mountains,  488. 

No  aimless  wanderers,  by  the  fiend  Unrest,  368. 

No  Berserk  thirst  of  blood  had  they,  232. 

No  bird-song  floated  down  the  hill,  155. 

No  more  these  simple  flowers  belong,  196. 

Not  always  as  the  whirlwind's  rush,  417. 

Not  as  a  poor  requital  of  the  joy,  177. 

Not  on  Penobscot's  wooded  bank  the  spires,  239. 

Not  unto  us  who  did  but  seek,  346. 

Not  vainly  did  old  poets  tell,  180. 

Not  vainly  we  waited  and  counted  the  hours,  513. 

Not  without  envy  Wealth  at  times  must  look, 

382. 

Not  with  the  splendors  of  the  days  of  old,  279. 
Now,  joy  and  thanks  forevermore,  308. 

0  Ary  Scheff  er !  when  beneath  thine  eye,  331. 

O  Christ  of  God  !  whose  life  and  death,  454. 

0  dearest  bloom  the  seasons  know,  462. 

O  dearly  loved,  182. 

O  dwellers  in  the  stately  towns,  226. 

O'er  the  bare  woods,  whose  outstretched  hands, 

150. 

Of  all  that  Orient  lands  can  vaunt,  316. 
Of  all  the  rides  since  the  birth  of  time,  55. 
O  friends  !  with  whom  my  feet  have  trod,  442. 
Of  rights  and  of  wrongs,  515. 
Oh,  dwarfed  and  wronged,  and  stained  with  ill, 

450. 

"  Oh,  for  a  knight  like  Bayard,  192. 
Oh,  greenly  and  fair  in  the  lands  of  the  sun, 

390. 

Oh,  none  in  all  the  world  before,  340. 
O  Holy  Father  !  just  and  true,  278. 
Oh,  praise  an'  tanks  !    De  Lord  he  come,  338. 
Oh,  thicker,  deeper,  darker  growing,  202. 
Oh,  well  may  Essex  sit  forlorn,  211. 
"  O  Lady  fair,  these  silks  of  mine  are  beauti* 

ful  and  rare,  3. 

Old  friend,  kind  friend  !   lightly  down,  190. 
Olor  Iscanus  queries :  "  Why  should  we,  333. 
O  lonely  bay  of  Trinity,  256. 
O  Mother  Earth  !   upon  thy  lap,  303. 
O  Mother  State  !   the  winds  of  March,  208. 
Once  more,  dear  friends,  you  meet  beneath,  341. 
Once  more,  O  all-adjusting  Death,  217. 
Once  more,  0  Mountains  of  the  North,  unveil, 

156. 

Once  more  on  yonder  laurelled  height,  224. 
One  day,  along  the  electric  wire,  193. 
One  hymn  more,  O  my  lyre,  420. 
One  morning  of  the  first  sad  Fall,  218. 
One  Sabbath  day  my  friend  and  I,  94. 
O  Norah,  lay  your  basket  down,  37. 
On  page  of  thine  I  cannot  trace,  388. 
On  the  isle  of  Penikese,  450. 
On  these  green  banks,  where  falls  too  soon,  4TGI 
On  the  wide  lawn  the  snow  lay  deep,  408. 
0  Painter  of  the  fruits  and  flowers,  237. 
O  people-chosen  !  are  ye  not,  347. 
O  Poet  rare  and  old,  373. 
0  river  winding  to  the  sea,  473. 
O  State  prayer-founded  !  never  hung,  320. 
O  storied  vale  of  Merrimac,  240. 
O  strong,  upwelling  prayers  of  faith,  45. 
O  Thou,  whose  presence  went  before,  268. 


536 


INDEX   OF   FIRST   LINES 


Our  fathers'  God  !  from  out  whose  hand,  234. 

Our  fellow-countrymen  in  chains,  267. 

Our  vales  are  sweet  with  fern  and  rose,  153. 

Out  and  in  the  river  is  winding,  69. 

Outbound,  your  bark  awaits  you.    Were  I  one, 

23S. 

Out  from  Jerusalem,  120. 
Over  the  threshold  of  his  pleasant  home,  137. 
Over  the  wooded  northern  ridge,  82. 

Pardon  a  stranger  hand  that  gives,  512. 
Pardon,  Lord,  the  lips  that  dare,  439. 
Piero  Luca,  known  of  all  the  town,  250. 
Pipes  of  the  misty  moorlands,  58. 
Poet  and  friend  of  poets,  if  thy  glass,  467. 
Poor  and  inadequate  the  shadow-play,  409. 
Pray  give  the  "  Atlantic,"  515. 
"  Put   up  the  sword  !  "     The  voice  of  Christ 
once  more,  382. 

Raze  these  long  blocks  of  brick  and  stone,  74. 
Red  as  the  banner  which  enshrouds,  488. 
Right  in  the  track  where  Sherman,  348. 
Rivermouth  Rocks  are  fair  to  see,  245. 
Robert  Rawlin  1  —  Frosts  were  falling,  51. 

Sad  Mayflower  !    watched  by  winter  stars,  149. 

Saint  Patrick,  slave  to  Milcho  of  the  herds. 
340. 

Sarah  Greenleaf,  of  eighteen  years,  509. 

Say,  whose  is  this  fair  picture,  which  the  light. 
506. 

Scarce  had  the  solemn  Sabbath-bell,  312. 

Seeress  of  the  misty  Norland,  183. 

She  came  and  stood  in  the  Old  South  Church, 
121. 

She  sang  alone,  ere  womanhood  had  known, 
475. 

She  sings  by  her  wheel  at  that  low  cottage- 
door,  269. 

She  was  a  fair  young  girl,  yet  on  her  brow,  491. 

Should  you  go  to  Centre  Harbor,  513. 

Silence  o'er  sea  and  earth,  486. 

Smoothing  soft  the  nestling  head,  464. 

So  fallen  !  so  lost !  the  light  withdrawn,  186. 

Some  die  too  late  and  some  too  soon,  187. 

So  spake  Esaias :  so,  in  words  of  flame,  198. 

So  stood  of  old  the  holy  Christ,  454. 

So  this  is  all,  —  the  utmost  reach,  27(5. 

Sound  now  the  trumpet  warningly,  512. 

Sound  over  all  waters,  reach  out  from  all  lands, 
453. 

Spare  me,  dread  angel  of  reproof,  441. 

Speak  and  tell  us,  our  Ximena,  looking  north 
ward  far  away,  35. 

Spirit  of  the  frozen  North,  487. 

Stand  still,  my  soul,  in  the  silent  dark,  426. 

Statesman,  I  thank  thee  1  and,  if  yet  dissent, 
332. 

Still,  as  of  old,  in  Beavor's  Vale,  466. 

Still  in  thy  streets,  O  Paris  !  doth  the  stain,  366. 

Still  linger  in  our  noon  of  time,  454. 

Still  sits  the  school-house  by  the  road,  407. 

^ranger  ana  traveller,  459. 

Stream  of  my  fathers  !  sweetly  still,  141. 

Strike  home,  strong-hearted  man  I  Down  to 
the  root,  179. 


Summer's  last  sun  nigh  unto  setting  shines,  477, 
Sunlight  upon  Judsea's  hills,  418. 
Sweetest  of  all  childlike  dreams,  157. 

Take  our  hands,  James  Russell  Lowell,  216. 
Talk  not  of  sad  November,  when  a  day,  168. 
Tauler,  the  preacher,  walked,  one  autumn  day, 

44. 

Thank  God  for  rest,  where  none  molest,  346. 
Thank  God  for  the  token  !  one  lip  is  still  free, 

275. 

Thanks  for  thy  gift,  184. 
The  age  is  dull  and  mean.    Men  creep,  317. 
The  autumn-time  has  come,  406. 
The  beaver  cut  his  timber,  77. 
The  Benedictine  Echard,  457. 
The  birds  against  the  April  wind,  343. 
The  blast  from  Freedom's  Northern  hills,  upon 

its  Southern  way,  286. 

The  Brownie  sits  in  the  Scotchman's  room,  6. 
The  burly  driver  at  my  side,  184. 
The  cannon's  brazen  lips  are  cold,  370. 
The  circle  is  broken,  one  seat  is  forsaken,  169. 
The  clouds,  which  rise  with  thunder,  slake,  431. 
The  cross,  if  rightly  borne,  shall  be,  192. 
The  day  is  closing  dark  and  cold,  36. 
The  day's  sharp  strife  is  ended  now,  382. 
The  dreadful  burden  of  our  sins  we  feel,  516. 
The    eagle,    stooping    from    yon    snow-blown 

peaks,  475. 

The  elder  folks  shook  hands  at  last,  445. 
The  end  has  come,  as  come  it  must,  234. 
The  evil  days  have  come,  the  poor,  313. 
The  fagots  blazed,  the  caldron's  smoke,  449. 
The  firmament  breaks  up.     In  black  eclipse, 

333. 

The  flags  of  war  like  storm-birds  fly,  339. 
The  fourteen  centuries  fall  away,  437. 
The  goodman  sat  beside  his  door,  15. 
The  great  work  laid  upon  his  twoscore  years, 

203. 

The  gulf  of  seven  and  fifty  years,  239. 
The  harp  at  Nature's  advent  strung,  2(51. 
The  Khan  came  from  Bokhara  town,  123. 
The  land,  that,  from  the  rule  of  kings,  240. 
The  land  was  pale  with  famine,  89. 
The  lowliest  born  of  all  the  land,  215. 
The  mercy,  O  Eternal  One,  465. 
The  moon  has  set :  while  yet  the  dawn,  314. 
The  name  the  Gallic  exile  bore,  412. 
The  new  world  honors  him  whose  lofty  plea, 

475. 
The  old  Squire  said,  as  he  stood  by  his  gate, 

126. 
The  Pagan's   myths  through   marble  lips  are 

spoken,  429. 

The  Persian's  flowery  gifts,  the  shrine,  220. 
The   pilgrim  and    stranger   who  through    the 

day,  483. 

The  pines  were  dark  on  Ramoth  hill,  76. 
The  pleasant  isle  of  Riigen  looks  the  Baltic 

water  o'er,  138. 
The  prophet  stood,  484. 
The  proudest  now  is  but  my  peer,  374. 
The  Quaker  of  the  olden  time,  351. 
The  Rabbi  Ishmael,  with  the  woe  and  sin,  126 
The  Rabbi  Nathan  twoscore  years  and  ten,  91. 


INDEX   OF    FIRST   LINES 


537 


There  are  streams  which  are  famous  in  his 
tory's  story,  485. 

The  river  hemmed  with  leaning  trees,  159. 

The  robins  sang  in  the  orchard,  the  buds  into 
blossoms  grew,  101. 

The  roll  of  drums  and  the  bugle's  wailing,  225. 

The  same  old  baffling  questions  !  0  my  friend, 
434. 

The  shade  for  me,  but  over  thee,  435. 

The  shadows  grow  and  deepen  round  me,  463. 

The  shadows  round  the  inland  sea,  144. 

The  skipper  sailed  out  of  the  harbor  mouth, 
128. 

The  sky  is  ruddy  in  the  east,  361. 

The  soul  itself  its  awful  witness  is,  461. 

The  South-land  boasts  its  teeming  cane,  371. 

The  storm  and  peril  overpast,  350. 

The  storm- wind  is  howling,  482. 

The  subtle  power  in  perfume  found,  166. 

The  summer  warmth  has  left  the  sky,  161. 

The  sunlight  glitters  keen  and  bright,  142. 

The  suns  of  eighteen  centuries  have  shone,  352. 

The  sun  that  brief  December  day,  399. 

The  sweet  spring  day  is  glad  with  music,  205. 

The  sword  was  sheathed :  in  April's  sun,  467. 

The  tall,  sallow  guardsmen  their  horsetails 
have  spread,  379. 

The  tent-lights  glimmer  on  the  land,  337. 

The  threads  our  hands  in  blindness  spin,  455. 

The  time  of  gifts  has  come  again,  159. 

The  tossing  spray  of  Cocheco's  fall,  131. 

The  tree  of  Faith  its  bare,  dry  boughs  must 
shed,  464. 

The  wave  is  breaking  on  the  shore,  281. 

The  winding  way  the  serpent  takes,  92. 

The  years  are  but  half  a  score,  384. 

The  years  are  many  since  his  hand,  195. 

The  years  are  many  since,  in  youth  and  hope, 

The  years  that  since  we  met  have  flown,  515. 

They  hear  Thee  not,  0  God  !  nor  see,  423. 

They  left  their  home  of  summer  ease,  162. 

They  sat  in  silent  watchfulness,  14. 

They  tell  me,  Lucy,  thou  art  dead,  174. 

Thine  are  all  the  gifts,  0  God,  235. 

Thine  is  a  grief,  the  depth  of  which  another, 

181. 

This  day,  two  hundred  years  ago,  219. 
Thou  dwellest  not,  O  Lord  of  all,  228. 
Though  flowers  have  perished  at  the  touch,  164. 
Thou  hast  fallen  in  thine  armor,  170. 
Thrice  welcome  from  the  Land  of  Flowers,  237. 
Thrice  welcome  to  thy  sisters  of  the  East,  301. 
Through  heat  and  cold,  and  shower  and  sun, 

362. 
Through  the  long  hall  the  shuttered  windows 

shed,  323. 

Through  the  streets  of  Marblehead,  236. 
Through  Thy  clear  spaces,  Lord,  of  old,  431. 
Thy  error,  Fremont,  simply  was  to  act,  335. 
'T  is  over,  Moses !    All  is  lost,  298. 
1Tis  said  that  in  the  Holy  Land,  391. 
'Tis  the  noon  of  the  spring-time,  yet  never  a 

bird,  145. 

To-day  the  plant  by  Williams  set,  229. 
Token  of  friendship,  true  and  tried,  283. 
To  kneel  before  some  saintly  shrine,  165. 


To  the  God  of  all  sure  mercies  let  my  blessing 

rise  to-day,  18. 

"  To  the  winds  give  our  banner  !  12. 
To  weary  hearts,  to  mourning  homes,  425. 
Traveller  !  on  thy  journey  toiling,  7, 
Tritemius  of  Herbipolis,  one  day,  54. 
'Twas  night.      The  tranquil  moonlight  smile, 

263. 

Twenty  years  have  taken  flight,  525. 
Type  of  two  mighty  continents  1  — combining. 

189. 

Under  the  great  hill  sloping  bare,  124. 

Under  the  shadow  of  a  cloud,  the  light,  515. 

Unfathomed  deep,  unfetter'd  waste,  486. 

Unnoted  as  the  setting  of  a  star,  217. 

Up  and  down  the  village  streets,  67. 

Up  from  the  meadows  rich  with  corn,  342. 

Up  from  the  sea  the  wild  north  wind  is  blow 
ing,  476. 

Up,  laggards  of  Freedom  !  —  our  free  flag  ia 
cast,  322. 

Up  the  hillside,  down  the  glen,  291. 

Up  the  streets  of  Aberdeen,  33. 

Voice  of  a  people  suffering  long,  349. 

Voice  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  making  known,  460. 

Wake,  sisters,  wake  !  the  day-star  shines,  456. 
Wave  of  an  awful  torrent,  thronging  down, 

506. 

Weary  of  jangling  noises  never  stilled,  464. 
We  cross  the  prairie  as  of  old,  317. 
We  give  thy  natal  day  to  hope,  383. 
We  had  been  wandering  for  many  days,  23. 
We  have  opened  the  door,  122. 
Welcome  home  again,  brave  seaman  !  with  thy 

thoughtful  brow  and  gray,  29(5. 
We  live  by  Faith  ;  but  Faith  is  not  the  slave, 

461. 

Well  speed  thy  mission,  hold  Iconoclast,  369. 
Well  thought !    who  would  not  rather   hear, 

198. 

We  praise  not  now  the  poet's  art,  203. 
We  sat  together,  last  May  -  day,  and  talked, 

213. 

We  saw  the  slow  tides  go  and  come,  160. 
We  see  not,  know  not ;  all  our  way,  333. 
We  wait  beneath  the  furnace-blast,  334. 
What  flecks  the  outer  gray  beyond,  257. 
What  shall  I  say,  dear  friends,  to  whom  I  owe, 

516. 
What  shall  I  wish  him  ?     Strength  and  health, 

516. 

What  though  around  thee  blazes,  292. 
When  first  I  saw  our  banner  wave,  338. 
When  Freedom,  on  her  natal  day,  275. 
When  on  my  day  of  life  the  night  is  falling, 

463. 

When  the  breath  divine  is  flowing,  421. 
When  the  reaper's  task   was  ended,  and  the 

summer  wearing  late,  60. 

Where  are  we  going  ?  where  are  we  going,  301. 
Where    ceaseless  Spring  her  garland    twines, 

231. 
Where,    over   heathen  doom  -  rings  and  gray 

stones  of  the  Horg,  112. 


538 


INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 


Where  the  Great  Lake's  sunny  smiles,  247. 
Where  Time  the  measure  of  his  hours,  416. 
White  clouds,  whose  shadows  haunt  the  deep, 

147. 

Who  gives  and  hides  the  giving  hand,  456. 
•Who,  looking  backward  from  his  manhood's 

prime,  4;>0. 
Who  stands  on  that  cliff,  like  a  figure  of  stone, 

495. 

•'  Why  urge  the  long,  unequal  fight,  376. 
Wildly  round  our  woodland  quarters,  359. 
With  a  cold  and  wintry  noon-light,  295. 
With  a  glory  of  winter  sunshine,  215. 


With  clearer  light,  Cross  of  the  South,  shine 
forth,  381. 

With  titty  years  between  you  and  your  well- 
kept  wedding  vow,  231 . 

With  warning  hand  I  mark  Time's  rapid  flight, 

.  4r>!)'. 
With  wisdom  far  beyond  her  years,  207. 

Years  since  (but  names  to  me  before),  206. 
Yes,  let  them  gather  1     Summon  forth,  284. 
Yes,  pile  the  marble  o'er  him  !     It  is  well,  173. 
You  flung  your  taunt  across  the  wave,  336. 
You  scarcely  need  my  tardy  thanks,  393. 


INDEX   OF  TITLES 


ABRAHAM  DAVBNPORT,  259. 

Abram  Morrison,  413. 

Adams,  John  Quincy,  481. 

Adjustment,  464. 

After  Election,  382. 

Album  Verses,  512. 

All  's  Well,  431. 

Among  the  Hills,  83. 

Amy  Wentworth,  79. 

Andrew  Rykman's  Prayer,  439. 

Angel  of  Patience,  The,  425. 

Angels  of  Buena  Vista,  The,  35. 

Anniversary  Poem,  341. 

Answer,  The,  441. 

April,  145. 

Arisen  at  Last,  316. 

Artist  of  the  Beautiful,  An,  216. 

Astrtea,  373. 

Astraea  at  the  Capitol,  338. 

At  Eventide,  409. 

At  Last,  463. 

At  Port  Royal,  337. 

At  School-Close,  234. 

At  Washington,  295. 

Autograph,  An,  413. 

Autograph,  An,  515. 

Autumn  Thoughts,  144. 

Banished  from  Massachusetts.  137. 
Barbara  Frietchie,  342. 
Barclay  of  Ury,  33. 
Barefoot  Boy,  The,  396. 
Bartholdi  Statue,  The,  240. 
Bartlett,  William  Francis,  211. 
Battle  Autumn  of  1862,  The,  339. 
Bay  of  Seven  Islands,  The,  127. 
Benedicite,  189. 
Benevolence,  485. 
Between  the  Gates,  476. 
Birchbrook  Mill,  133. 
Birthday  Wreath,  The,  475. 
Bolivar,  491. 
Book,  The,  460. 
Branded  Hand,  The,  296. 
Brewing  of  Soma,  The,  449. 
Bridal  of  Pennacook,  The,  23. 
Brother  of  Mercy,  The,  250. 
Brown  Dwarf  of  Riigen,  The,  138. 
Brown  of  Ossawatomie,  201. 
Bryant  on  his  Birthday,  203. 
Burial  of  Barber,  319. 
Burning  Drift- Wood,  471. 
Burns,  196. 
By  their  Works,  460. 

Cable  Hymn,  The,  256. 

Calef  in  Boston,  371. 

Call  of  the  Christian,  The.  417. 

Captain's  Well,  The,  468. 

Cassandra  Southwick,  18. 

Centennial  Hymn,  234. 

Chalkley  Hall,  177. 

Changeling,  The,  251. 

Channing,  180. 

Chapel  of  the  Hermits,  The,  39. 

Charity,  483. 


Chicago,  230. 

Child-Songs,  454. 

Christian  Slave,  The,  288. 

Christian  Tourists,  The,  368. 

Christmas  Carmen,  A,  453. 

Christmas  of  1888,  The,  467. 

Cities  of  the  Plain,  The,  417. 

Clear  Vision,  The,  447. 

Clerical  Oppressors,  272. 

Cobbler  Keezar's  Vision,  77. 

Common  Question,  The,  443. 

Conductor  Bradley,  117. 

Conquest  of  Finland,  The,  377. 

Countess,  The,  81. 

Crisis,  The,  308. 

Cross,  The,  192. 

Crucifixion,  The,  418. 

Cry  of  a  Lost  Soul,  The,  438. 

Curse  of  the  Charter-Breakers,  The,  306. 

Cypress-Tree  of  Ceylon,  The,  14. 

Day,  A,  168. 

Day's  Journey,  A,  516. 

Dead  Feast  of  the  Kol-Folk,  The,  122. 

Dead  Ship  of  Harpswell,  The,  257. 

Dedication  of  a  School-house.     See  Our  State. 

Deity,  The,  484. 

Democracy,  351. 

Demon  of  the  Study,  The,  6. 

Derne,  311. 

Disarmament,  382. 

Disenthralled,  The,  374. 

Divine  Compassion,  448. 

Dr.  Kane  in  Cuba,  481. 

Dole  of  Jarl  Thorkell,  The,  89. 

Double-Headed  Snake  of  Newbury,  The,  61, 

Dream  of  Argyle,  The,  479. 

Dream  of  Pio  Nono,  The,  375. 

Dream  of  Summer,  A,  143. 

Drovers,  The,  362. 

Drunkard  to  his  Bottle,  The,  490. 

Earthquake,  The,  487. 

Easter  Flower  Gift,  An,  462. 

Ego,  388. 

"  Ein  feste  Burg  ist  unser  Gott,"  334. 

Eleanor.     See  My  Playmate. 

Elliott,  185. 

Emancipation  Group,  The,  349. 

Eternal  Goodness,  The,  442. 

Eva,  218. 

Evening  in  Burmah,  508. 

Eve  of  Election,  The,  378. 

Exile's  Departure,  The,  484. 

Exiles,  The,  14. 

Expostulation,  267. 

Extract  from  "  A  New  England  Legend,"  5. 

Ezekiel,  423. 

Fair  Quakeress,  The,  491. 

Famihst's  Hymn,  The,  421. 

Farewell,  A,  516. 

Farewell  of  a  Virginia  Slave  Mother,  The,  278. 

Female  Martyr,  The,  4. 

First- Day  Thoughts,  433. 

First  Flowers,  The,  153. 


539 


540 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Fishermen,  The,  358. 

Flowers  in  Winter,  148. 

Follen.     See  Expostulation. 

Follen  :  on  Reading  his  Essay  on  "  The  Future  State," 

For  an  Autumn  Festival,  220. 

Forgiveness,  390. 

For  Righteousness'  Sake,  317. 

Forster,  William,  195. 

Fountain,  The,  7. 

Fragment,  A,  516. 

Fratricide,  The,  493. 

Freed  Islands,  The,  298. 

Freedom  in  Brazil,  381. 

Fremont  Campaign  Song,  A,  512. 

Friend's  Burial,  The,  452. 

From  Perugia,  379. 

Frost  Spirit,  The,  141. 

Fruit-Gift,  The,  148. 

Funeral  Tree  of  the  Sokokis,  11. 

Gallows,  The,  352. 

Garden,  237. 

Garibaldi,  205. 

Garrison,  350. 

Garrison  of  Cape  Ann,  The,  52. 

Gift  of  Tritemius,  The,  54. 

Giving  and  Taking,  456. 

Godspeed,  238. 

Golden  Wedding  of  Longwood,  The.  231. 

Gone,  178. 

Grave  by  the  Lake,  The,,  247. 

Greeting,  412. 

Greeting,  A,  237. 

EEalleck,  Fitz-Greene,  211. 

Hampton  Beach,  142. 

Haschish,  The,  316. 

Haverhill,  473. 

Hazel  Blossoms,  161. 

Healer,  The,  454. 

Help,  461. 

Henchman,  The,  121. 

Hermit  of  the  Thebaid,  The,  45. 

Hero,  The,  192. 

Hill-Top,  The,  184. 

Hive  at  Gettysburg,  The,  348. 

Holmes,  O.  W.,  on  his  Eightieth  Birthday,  473. 

Holy  Land,  The,  430. 

Home-Coming  of  the  Bride,  The,  509. 

Homestead,  The,  135. 

Hooper,  Lucy,  174. 

Howard  at  Atlanta,  348. 

How  Mary  Grew,  207. 

How  the  Robin  Came,  136. 

How  the  Women  went  from  Dover,  130. 

Human  Sacrifice,  The,  355. 

Hunters  of  Men,  The,  270. 

Huskers,  The,  363. 

Hymn  for  the  Celebration  of  Emancipation  at  Newbury- 
port,  346. 

Hymn  for  the  House  of  Worship  at  Georgetown,  228. 

Hymn  for  the  Opening  of  Plymouth  Church,  232. 

Hymn  for  the  Opening  of  Thomas  Starr  King's  House 
of  Worship,  227. 

Hymn  of  the  Children,  235. 

Hymn  of  the  Dunkers,  456. 

Hymn  :  "  O  Holy  Father  !  just  and  true,"  278. 

Hymn  :  "  0  Thou  whose  presence  went  before,"  268. 

Hymns  of  the  Brahmo  Somaj,  465. 

Hymns  from  the  French  of  Lamartine,  420. 

Hymn  sung  at  Christmas  by  the  Scholars  of  St.  Hel 
ena's  Island,  S.  C.,  340. 

Ichabod, 186. 
In  Memory,  214. 
Tn  Peace,  188. 


In  Quest,  451. 

In  Remembrance  of  Joseph  Sturge,  199. 

In  School-Days,  407. 

Inscriptions,  459. 

In  the  Evil  Days,  313. 

In  the  "  Old  South,"  121. 

Invocation,  431. 

Isabel,  494. 

Isabella  of  Austria,  492. 

Italy,  381. 

"  I  was  a  Stranger,  and  ye  took  me  in,"  233. 

John  Underbill,  115. 

Jubilee  Singers,  The,  349. 

Judith  at  the  Tent  of  Holofernes,  488. 

June  on  the  Merrimac,  226. 

Kallundborg  Church,  255. 
Kansas  Emigrants,  The,  317. 
Kathleen,  37. 
Kenoza  Lake,  219. 
Khan's  Devil,  The,  123. 
King,  Thomas  Starr,  203. 
King's  Missive,  The,  124. 
King  Solomon  and  the  Ants,  120. 
King  Volmer  and  Elsie,  112. 
Kinsman,  231. 

Knight  of  St.  John,  The,  17. 
Kossuth,  189. 

Lady  Franklin,  482. 

Lakeside,  The,  144. 

Lament,  A,  169. 

Landmarks,  The,  236. 

Last  Eve  of  Summer,  The,  477. 

Last  Walk  in  Autumn,  The,  150. 

"  Laurels,  The,"  226. 

Laus  Deo,  345. 

Lay  of  Old  Time,  A,  218. 

Legacy, A,  415. 

Legend  of  St.  Mark,  The,  36. 

Legend  of  the  Lake,  A,  513. 

Leggett's  Monument,  173. 

Letter  from  a  Missionary  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal 
Church  South,  in  Kansas,  to  a  Distinguished  Poli 
tician,  318. 

Letter,  A,  supposed  to  be  written  by  the  Chairman  of 
the  Central  Clique,  at  Concord,  N.  H.,  298. 

Letter  to  Lucy  Larcom,  514. 

Lexington,  232. 

Library,  The,  233. 

Light  that  is  felt,  The,  464. 

Lines.    See  Arisen  at  Last. 

Lines.     See  At  Washington. 

Lines.     See  For  Righteousness'  Sake. 

Lines.     See  Freed  Islands,  The. 

Lines.     See  Gallows,  The. 

Lines.     See  Lost  Statesman,  The. 

Lines.     See  My  Thanks. 

Lines.     See  Official  Piety. 

Lines.    See  Ritner. 

Lines.     See  Summons,  A. 

Lines  from  a  Letter  to  a  Young  Clerical  Friend,  300. 

Lines  on  a  Fly-Leaf,  203. 

Lines  on  Leaving  Appledore,  515. 

Lines  on  the  Death  of  S.  Oliver  Torrey,  170. 

Lines  on  the  Portrait  of  a  Celebrated  Publisher,  310, 

Lines  written  in  an  Album,  516. 

Lines  written  in  the  Book  of  a  Friend.     See  Ego. 

Lines,  written  on  the  Departure  of  Joseph  Sturge,  480 

Lost  Occasion,  The,  187. 

Lost  Statesman,  The,  304. 

Lowell,  James  Russell,  473. 

Lumberman,  The,  359. 

Mabel  Martin  :  A  Harvest  Idyl,  62. 
Maids  of  Attitash,  The,  253. 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


54X 


Mantle  of  St.  John  de  Matha,  The,  344. 

Marais  du  Cygne,  Le,  320. 

Marguerite,  101. 

Martha  Mason.    See  Ranger,  The. 

Mary  Garvin,  49. 

Massachusetts,  508. 

Massachusetts  to  Virginia,  286. 

Maud  Muller,  47. 

Mayflowers,  The,  149. 

Meeting,  The,  445. 

Meeting  Waters,  The,  483. 

Memorial,  A,  202. 

Memories,  386. 

Memory,  A,  395. 

Memory  of  Burns,  The,  199. 

Men  of  Old,  The,  369. 

Merrimac,  The,  141. 

Metacom,  488. 

Milton,  on  Memorial  "Window,  475. 

Minister's  Daughter,  The,  459. 

Miriam,  93. 

Missionary,  The,  506. 

Mithridates  at  Chios,  337. 

Mogg  Megone,  495. 

Moloch  in  State  Street,  314. 

Moral  Warfare,  The,  275. 

Mount  Agiochook,  490. 

Mountain  Pictures,  156. 

Mrs.  Choate's  House-Warming,  515. 

Mulford,  217. 

My  Birthday,  408. 

My  Dream,  395. 

My  Namesake,  393. 

My  Playmate,  76. 

My  Psalm,  397. 

My  Soul  and  I,  426. 

Mystery,  A,  159. 

Mystic's  Christmas,  The,  462. 

My  Thanks,  391.      ' 

My  Triumph,  406. 

My  Trust,  411. 

Name,  A,  412. 

Naples,  201. 

Nauhaught,  the  Deacon.  99. 

Neall,  Daniel,  300. 

New  Exodus,  The,  377. 

New  Hampshire,  293. 

New  Wife  and  the  Old,  The,  21. 

New  Tear,  The,  281. 

Night  and  Death,  482. 

Norsemen,  The,  9. 

Norembega,  92. 

Norumbega  Hall,  239. 

Ocean,  486. 

Official  Piety,  315. 

Old  Burying-Ground,  The,  153. 

On  a  Fly-Leaf  of  Longfellow's  Poema,  516. 

On  a  Prayer-Book,  330. 

One  of  the  Signers,  240. 

On  Receiving  an 

On  the  Big  Horn, ; 

Oriental  Maxims,  461. 

Our  Autocrat,  213. 

Our  Country,  383. 

Our  Master,  443. 

Our  River,  224. 

Our  State,  371. 

Outdoor  Reception,  An,  470. 

Over-Heart,  The,  436. 

Overruled,  455. 

Ouverture,  Toussaint  L',  262. 

Psean,  308. 
Pageant,  The,  158. 
Palatine,  The,  258. 


,144. 


Palestine,  419. 

Palm-Tree,  The,  155. 

Panorama,  The,  323. 

Pass  of  the  Sierra,  The,  321. 

Past  and  Coming  Year,  The,  506. 

Pastoral  Letter,  The,  276. 

Peace  Autumn,  The,  346. 

Peace  Convention  at  Brussels,  The,  366. 

Peace  of  Europe,  The,  373. 

Pennsylvania  Hall,  279. 

Pennsylvania  Pilgrim,  The,  103. 

Pentucket,  8. 

Pictures,  146. 

Pine-Tree,  The,  293. 

Pipes  at  Lucknow,  The,  58. 

Playmate,  The.    See  My  Playmate. 

Poet  and  the  Children,  The,  215. 

Poetical  Trio  in  the  City  of  Gotham,  To  a,  510. 

Poor  Voter  on  Election  Day,  The,  374. 

Powers,  Preston,  Inscription  for  Bass-Relief ,  475. 

Prayer  of  Agassiz,  The,  450. 

Prayer-Seeker,  The,  448. 

Preacher,  The,  69. 

Prelude,  The.    See  Greeting. 

Pressed  Gentian,  The,  159. 

Prisoner  for  Debt,  The,  367. 

Prisoners  of  Naples,  The,  372. 

Problem,  The,  382. 

Proclamation,  The,  340. 

Proem,  1. 

Prophecy  of  Samuel  Sewall,  The,  67. 

Pumpkin,  The,  390. 

Quaker  Alumni,  The,  220. 
Quaker  of  the  Olden  Time,  The,  351. 
Quakers  are  out,  The,  513. 
Questions  of  Life,  432. 

Rabbi  Ishmael,  126. 

Randolph  of  Roanoke,  303. 

Ranger,  The,  51. 

Rantoul,  193. 

Raphael,  387. 

Red  Riding-Hood,  408. 

Red  River  Voyageur,  The,  69. 

Reformer,  The,  364. 

Relic,  The,  283. 

Remembrance,  392. 

Rendition,  The,  315. 

Requirement,  461. 

Requital,  135. 

Response,  409. 

Reunion,  The,  239. 

Revelation,  465. 

Revisited,  225. 

Reward,  The,  430. 

Ritner,  275. 

River  Path,  The,  155. 

Robin,  The,  102. 

"  Rock,  The,"  in  El  Ghor,  435. 

Rock-Tomb  of  Bradore,  The,  127. 

R.  S.  S.,  at  Deer  Island  on  the  Merrimac,  471. 

Sabbath  Scene,  A,  312. 

St.  Gregory's  Guest,  132. 

St.  John,  12. 

St.  Martin's  Summer,  164. 

Sea  Dream,  A,  160. 

Seed-Time  and  Harvest,  354. 

Seeking  of  the  Waterfall,  The,  162. 

Sentence  of  John  L.  Brown,  The,  289. 

Sewall,  Samuel  E.,  516. 

Shadow  and  the  Light,  The,  437. 

Ship-Builders,  The,  361. 

Shoemakers,  The,  357. 

Sicilian  Vespers,  The,  486. 

Sigourney,  Lydia  H.,  Inscription  on  Tablet,  475. 


542 


INDEX  OF  TITLES 


Singer,  The,  206. 

Sisters,  The,  100. 

Sisters,  The  :  a  Picture  by  Barry,  435. 

Skipper  Ireson's  Ride,  55. 

Slave-Ships,  The,  265. 

Slaves  of  Martinique,  The,  305. 

Snow-Bound,  398. 

Song  for  the  Time,  A,  322. 

Song,  A,  Inscribed  to  the  Frdmont  Clubs,  323. 

Song  of  Harvest,  A,  219. 

Song  of  Slaves  in  the  Desert,  301. 

Song  of  the  Vermonters,  The,  509. 

Spirit  of  the  North,  The,  487. 

Spiritual  Manifestation,  A,  228. 

Stanzas.     See  Expostulation. 

Stanzas  :   "  Bind  up  thy  tresses,  thou  beautiful  one," 

494. 

Stanzas  for  the  Times,  271. 
Stanzas  for  the  Times.    See  In  the  Evil  Days. 
Star  of  Bethlehem,  The,  416. 
Stearns,  George  L.,  204. 
Storm  on  Lake  Asquam,  165. 
"  Story  of  Ida,"  The,  464. 
Summer  by  the  Lakeside,  147. 
Summer  Pilgrimage,  A,  165. 
Summons,  A,  272. 
Summons,  The,  332. 
Sumner,  208. 

Sunset  on  the  Bearcamp,  161. 
Swan  Song  of  Parson  Avery,  The,  60, 
Sweet  Fern,  166. 
Sycamores,  The,  56. 

Tauler,  44. 
Taylor,  Bayard,  212. 
Telling  the  Bees,  59 
Tent  on  the  Beach,  The,  242. 
Texas,  291. 
Thiers,  210. 
Three  Bells,  The,  114. 
Thy  Will  be  Done,  333. 
Tilden,  Samuel  J.,  217. 

To .     Lines  written  after  a  Summer  Day's  Excur 
sion,  188. 

To ,  with  a  Copy  of  John  "Woolman's  Journal,  171. 

To  a  Cape  Ann  Schooner,  217. 

To  a  Friend,  173. 

To  a  Poetical  Trio  in  the  City  of  Gotham,  510. 

To  a  Southern  Statesman,  294. 

To  Avis  Keene,  184. 

To  Charles  Sumner,  196. 

To  Delaware,  301, 

ToE.  C.  S.,4G7. 

To  Englishmen,  336. 

To  Faneuil  Hall,  292. 

To  Fredrika  Bremer,  183. 

To  G.  G.,  474. 

To  George  B.  Cheever,  198. 

To  James  T.  Fields,  198. 

To  John  C.  Fremont,  334. 

To  J.  P.,  177. 

To  Lucy  Larcom,  514. 

To  Lydia  Maria  Child,  295. 

To  Massachusetts,  292. 

To  my  Friend  on  the  Death  of  his  Sister,  181. 

To  my  old  Schoolmaster,  190. 

To  my  Sister,  381. 


To  Oliver  Wendell  Holmes,  477. 

To  Pennsylvania,  320. 

To  Pius  IX.,  370. 

To  Ronge,  179. 

To  Samuel  E.  Sewall  and  Harriet  W.  Sewall,  332. 

To  the  Memory  of  Charles  B.  Storrs,  170. 

To  the  Memory  of  Thomas  Shipley,  274. 

To  the  Reformers  of  England,  354. 

To  the  Thirty-Ninth  Congress,  347. 

To  William  H.  Seward,  332. 

To  William  Lloyd  Garrison,  262. 

Toussaint  L'Ouverture,  262. 

Trailing  Arbutus,  The,  164. 

Trinitas,  434. 

Truce  of  Piscataqua,  The,  74. 

Trust,  434. 

Two  Angels,  The,  455. 

Two  Elizabeths,  The,  134. 

Two  Loves,  The,  464. 

Two  Rabbins,  The,  91. 

Utterance,  461. 

Vale  of  the  Merrimac,  The,  485. 

Valuation,  126. 

Vanishers,  The,  157. 

Vaudois  Teacher,  The,  3. 

Vermonters,  Song  of  the,  509. 

Vesta,  454. 

Vision  of  Echard,  The,  457. 

Voices,  The,  376. 

Vow  of  Washington,  The,  467. 

Voyage  of  the  Jettie,  410. 

Waiting,  The,  398. 

Watchers,  The,  335. 

Wedding  V  sil,  The,  483. 

Welcome  to  Lowell,  A,  216. 

Well  of  Loch  Maree,  The,  39. 

What  of  the  Day,  322. 

What  State  Street  said,  512. 

What  the  Birds  said,  343. 

What  the  Traveller  said  at  Sunset,  463. 

What  the  Voice  said,  424. 

Wheeler,  Daniel,  182. 

Wife  of  Manoah  to  her  Husband,  The,  425. 

Wife,  The.    See  Among  the  Hills. 

Wilson,  215. 

Wind  of  March,  The,  476. 

Winter  Roses,  238. 

Wishing  Bridge,  The,  130. 

Wish  of  To-Day,  The,  431. 

Witch  of  Wenham,  The,  117. 

Witch's  Daughter,  The.    See  Mabel  Martin. 

Within  the  Gate,  213. 

Woman,  A,  450. 

Wood  Giant,  The,  167. 

Word,  The,  460. 

Word  for  the  Hour,  A,  333. 

Wordsworth,  188. 

World's  Convention,  The,  284. 

Worship,  429. 

Worship  of  Nature,  The,  261. 

Wreck  of  Rivermouth,  The,  24& 

Yankee  Girl,  The,  269. 
Yorktown,  302. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROW! 

LOAN  DEPT 


2lA-50m-4,'59 
(A1724slO)476B 


Berkeley 


